


every me loves every you

by emmaofmisthaven



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-02-27
Updated: 2017-03-11
Packaged: 2018-01-14 00:36:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 27
Words: 57,443
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1246129
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/emmaofmisthaven/pseuds/emmaofmisthaven
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Collection of modern AU drabbles</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Okay so the plan is for me to go through [that list of AU ideas](http://paradisdesbilles.tumblr.com/post/77371590617/obligatory-aus-i-really-want-post) and write as many as possible. Cause I'm feeling like it.
> 
> #1: on a train together and the train is stopped in the middle of nowhere for some reason AU  
> (they say to write about what you know so I wrote about shitty French trains.)  
> (this is a thing that really happened to me a few years back. the camel trivia also happened. wish I was kidding.)

Having to chase someone across the border happens rarely, if not ever, and it always ends in Canada or, if she’s lucky, Mexico. So having to chase someone in Europe of all places? Jack-fucking-pot. It feels like holidays more than anything, those few days spent in London – even if she spends them on her laptop in a hotel room and not outside, visiting the National Gallery or going to see Les Mis. Still the change of scenery doesn’t hurt – the enormous paycheck waiting for her neither, nor the fact that her boss pays for everything from hotel to food. So when she finds that the guy moved to France of all places, well, she’s not one to complain.

The train, on the other hand, she does complain about. She’s not used to it, more comfortable with her frequent-flyer miles and carry-on bag than with the overpriced mini-bar and freezing air conditioning. Not to mention they stopped at Marne-la-Vallée and now her car is full of Mickey Mouse balloons and over-excited children after a whole day spent at Disneyland. She tries to burry herself in a book – something by some August Booth guy that hits too close to home for her to be truly comfortable in her reading – but no amount of music can tune down the low yells and laughs. How great.

It’s late and she’s tired and all she wants is for the train to finally arrive at the station so she can go to her hotel and sleep until morning – she needs her eight hours, the criminal will wait.

But, of course – of freaking course – things don’t go as planned.

She notices the train slowing down for long minutes until it stops altogether, the lights flickering for a second or two before switching off. Cue to scared high-pitched screams from the brats. She tears her earphones off, sitting straighter in her seat as she cranes her neck for an employee – where’s the guy with the stupid cap that checked her ticket an hour before

“Freaking great.”

She realises she’s said that out loud when the guy sitting by the other side of the aisle starts chuckling. She glances at him, sitting alone at a four-person table, his laptop open to some Excel page in front of him.

“First train journey across France?” She notices the Irish accent first, the smirk next. “You never forget your first.”

She’s tired and annoyed and the kids won’t stop making noise, but the stranger’s grin is contagious so Emma finds herself smiling back. The fact he’s quite handsome helps too. “So the rumours are true.”

“France: good cuisine, shitty railway. Yup.” The ‘p’ pops in his mouth, tongue against his teeth mesmerizing her for a second there.

The lights flicker back to life, but the train doesn’t budge, having her sigh deeply. Whatever is happening, it looks like it’s not going to happen any time soon. She pressed her nose to the window, as if hoping to see something outside, but she only finds the never-ending French countryside, sun setting slowly but surely.  Because being in the middle of nowhere is obviously the cherry on the top. A sigh escapes her lips as she leans back against her seat, eye closing on their own accord.

“Don’t worry,” Tall dark and handsome says, “I’m sure we’ll be back on tracks in a tick.”

She rolls her head to the side to look at him, frowning. “Used to it, huh?”

“Aye. My society is based in London but I need to travel to Marseille more often than not. Seen a lot of strikes and accidents and late trains through the years. Even a camel on the rails, once.”

She grins at the anecdote but, still. “Why don’t you fly? Surely it must be quicker. And cheaper.”

“Afraid of flying,” he shrugs.

She grins, almost mockingly, but he only pouts at her instead of taking offense. “I’m Emma, by the way. Emma Swan.”

“Killian Jones. And what are you doing so far from home, Emma Swan?”

Her name rolls on his tongue in an almost pornographic way, blue eyes sparkling with mischief as his lips curl into yet another smirk. She tries not to be affected by this, because it is quite obvious that he’s doing it on purpose and she doesn’t have time for players like him – tries, and fails miserably. So miserably that it takes her a moment before remembering there was a question hidden there somewhere.

“I’m on a job. Bail bondsperson.”

His pout can only be described as impressed – they always are, as far as her job is concerned, never imagining for a second there that someone like her captures criminals for a living. She wouldn’t be good at it if her looks weren’t deceiving, after all.

“The guy is going out of his way not to be caught, that’s for sure.”

“Tell me about it.”

She checks her phone only to notice they’ve been still for ten minutes already, when an employee finally makes his way through the aisle. Killian quickly catches him by the sleeve with a polite smile.

“Excusez-moi, que se passe-t-il?” he asks in a perfect French. _Show-off_.

The other man answers, and Emma immediately regrets taking Spanish instead of French in high school for she doesn’t understand a single word uttered. Thanks god for bilingual Sexy Irish, who turns to her once they’re done talking, a small frown on his brows. Uh-oh.

“There’s a problem with an old lady. Something about an oxygen mask and not enough air tanks for the whole trip. They’re waiting for the firemen to bring some more but since we’re in the middle of nowhere… Could be minutes, could be hours.”

Her eyes widen before she groans, letting her head fall on the small table in front of her, bumping it several times. The idiot only laughs at her antics.

“Hey, I’ve got the five first episodes of Black Sails on my computer, feel like watching it?”

“What’s that?” she asks, forehead still against the cold table – strangely soothing.

The grin he offers her is simply wicked. “Show about pirates. The main lady looks a bit like you.”

She sighs once more before shrugging. If they’re stuck here for hours, she might as well keep occupied, and that Killian dude is more entertaining that her book ever will be. So she just shoves her stuffs in her handbag before switching places to sit next to him. He doesn’t waste time before starting the first episode.

It is gruesome and bloody and all kinds of awesome – and, yes, that Eleanor Guthries kicks ass, there is no denying it – but the funnier part is their comments, laughing and snarking at the screen at all the right moments. Surprisingly, she has fun with this almost stranger, as they share the same weird sense of humour and love for violent shows. They even snicker like teenagers when one of the mothers ask them, on a wrathful tone, if they could tune it down because _there are children here_ and the thing they’re watching is _highly inappropriate_. Killian shoots her the V sign when she walks back to her own seat, and Emma has to bite on her hand not to laugh out loud.

(She can’t remember the last time she laughed that much, that carefree, can’t remember ever feeling so at ease with a perfect stranger. It is as nice as it is disconcerting, for Emma isn’t used to it. So she glances at him from the corner of her eyes when he’s not looking, wondering what is so special about him, why she feels so drawn to him for a reason she can’t understand.)

(He glances at her when she’s not looking, tiny smile on his lips.)

They’re about to start the third episode when Killian glances at the window, before focusing longer on what is happening outside. “Finally,” he says and, since they obviously left their maturity behind the moment they decided to chat, he leans against the window and her against his side to catch a glance at the mess outside. The blue and red light of the fire truck, people coming and going in the night. It’s done in less than five minutes before the truck drives away – another ten minutes and the train is moving again, someone apologizing for the delay in the speakers.

“Well…” Killian says, and she doesn’t miss the dejection tone or the pity party on his face. She grins and hits ‘enter’ for the episode to start. He grins back.

(There’s yet another hour before they make it to the station, and she falls asleep on his shoulder at some point only to have him waking her up when they’re finally in Lyon. She rubs her eyes, not caring if she ends looking like a panda, smiling sadly at him. But he missed his connection to Marseille and the next train is in the morning so, really, all she can do at this point is drag him to her hotel room.)

(He leaves at the crack of dawn with one last kiss as he gives her his business card, cell phone number scribbled on the back. “Call me,” he says, even if he knows as well as she does that nothing could ever happen between them.)

(Back in New York, she calls anyway. “I’ve always wanted to visiting Ireland.” She can practically hear his grin at the other end of the line.)


	2. wingman

“Hey beautiful. Can I buy you a drink?”

She tries really hard not to roll her eyes – really, she does – but can’t help it, because she’s barely been sitting for ten seconds and already some frat boy comes to annoy her. Can’t a girl have a break for a minute there, seriously? But she knows those guys, knows them all too well, so she forces a humourless smile on her lips as she turns to look at him. Yep, definitely some drunk frat boy, with the stupid cap and stupid hoodie and stupid grin – just her luck.

“No, thank you.”

“Oh come on, darling. Just one drink.”

The stubbornness doesn’t surprise her all that much – she’s seen worse, sadly – but it still annoys her and she mentally curses her friends for being too busy dancing to help her out on that one. She curses Mary Margaret for thinking going out and celebrating the end of term would be a good idea, because it isn’t, and here she is, flirted at by a joke of a human being who can’t take a hint.

“I said  _no, thank you_.”

“So defensive,” he says, ignoring her grimace as his hand finds her thigh – for a second there, all she wants is to chop it off. “Got a boyfriend?”

That’s it. She’s about to give him a piece of her mind – how she’s not someone’s  _propriety_  and she shouldn’t have some dude pissing on her leg for other dudes to understand they’re  _not fucking welcomed_  – when the hand is swatted away and another man places himself between her and the dimwit, casually leaning against the bar counter. She blinks up at the newcomer – dark hair, blue eyes, shit-eating grin – before a loud sigh escapes her lips but…

“Sorry, traffic was a bitch. You all right?”

She blinks again, mouth opening in confusion, both at the sudden appearance and unexpected Irish accent – and gosh, he  _winks_  at her, what even? But still, Emma’s first thought isn’t to shrug him off the way she wanted to do with the other dude, which is even more confusion in itself. And speaking of the devil…

“Excuse me, dude, but I was there first so…”

The way he glares at the frat boy can only be described as feral, wrinkling his nose with quiet anger. The other man takes a step back – but only one, what an idiot.

“Excuse me,  _mate_ , but I’ve know Allison since we were babes so I’m pretty sure I was there first.”

Her eyes widen for a second because, seriously, why did she do to deserve those two idiots – that is, until she realises he used some made-up name for her. It clicks then, and she can’t help but scoff at her improvised knight in shining armour. The whole thing is ridiculous, and she’s not quite drunk enough yet for that kind of shenanigans, so she downs her drink before patting Sexy Irish on the arm.

“Calm down, James. The guy was leaving anyway.”

She pointedly looks at the frat boy then, who  _finally_  decides this is a lost battle and goes back to his herd of idiots. Emma sighs loudly as she turns back to the counter and catches the bartender’s attention, having her glass refilled in a matter of seconds. It’s only when she’s bringing her drink to her lips that she notices Sexy Irish hasn’t moved, ordering a drink of his own.

She frowns at him, confused. Emma isn’t foreign to that little trick to get rid of clingy guys, and Mary Margaret has helped her out more than once, providing much needed distraction – hell, David even pretended to be her boyfriend once. But coming from some random stranger? Who didn’t go all touchy-feely on her in the process? Who didn’t even try to force a thanks out of her right after? Damn right it leaves her confused and (charmingly) surprised.

“I’m Killian, by the way,” he tells her between two sips of his rum, eyes twinkling as he might notice the stupor written all over her face. He laughs. “Sorry, but I knew he wouldn’t leave you alone so… I’m actually doing this with my cousin Ruby quite often, I know how to recognize the signs by now.”

He nods to something above her shoulder, and Emma turns around to find a leggy brunette grinding against… well, Victor, apparently. Very much willingly this time, she notices, as her blond friend looks like he just won the jackpot and doesn’t believe his luck. She scoffs before turning back to look at her saviour with a small smile that grows bigger with the contagious grin he offers her. Stupid good-looking idiot.

“Emma.”

“Well, it was nice meeting you, Emma.”

Her name on his lips, even tuned down by the loud music of the club, sounds like warm honey, and she finds herself biting her lip – which she quickly hides with yet another sip of whiskey. Killian only wriggles his eyebrows at her before taking his glass to leave – and gosh, he’s not even trying a move, like some sort of old-school gentleman. So she acts on instinct. Grabs his arm. Pulls him back next to her.

“Can you stay? Just in case he comes back?”

If he reads the blatant lie in her voice and on her face, he doesn’t point it out.

…

From this point, it becomes some kind of habit.

“Oh god, Emma, you will  _never_  believe what… who’s the guy?”

“Lass, where did you go? I was looking for you everywhere.”

Somewhat, and to the general surprise of no one, cousin Ruby and Victor become an item, which results in the brunette spending more time with the group – which leads to more partying, apparently. And, every time without failing, Killian shows up out of nowhere when she’s being hit on unwillingly. Emma is surprised at how  _not annoyed_  she is with the whole thing – she can take care of herself, thank you very much – but instead is very amused by his antics and the excuses he finds every time.

The stories get better and more complex as time passes by, accumulating little details and fake shared memories. Their mothers are best friends and went through pregnancy together – they grew up in the same neighbourhood until Killian went back to Ireland when he was eight, hence the accent – they’ve always been best friends – his car is awfully slow and he’s always stuck in traffic for some reason. Emma would never admit it out loud, because it’s still all about deflecting misogynists, but she has fun with him. He makes her laugh with a joke or a wink, sometimes both, and forces her to dance sometimes, when one of the guys really insists on staying by her side.

“I kind of liked this one…” she says as Killian watches a guy running away, smirk on his lips.

“No, love. This one wasn’t for you.”

…

“I think you should let the lady decide for herself.”

“And I think you should take a hint and leave, mate.”

Killian may be all broad shoulders and lean muscles, but the guy is huge, probably the university’s quarterback if his jacket is telling, so Emma’s eyes widen as he takes a step forwards with a sneer, nose almost touching. She wants to pull him away, because now is obviously not the time or place to go all peacock on someone, but she doesn’t move, simply stares at the scene unfolding in front of her, stares at Killian’s dangerous grin.

Oddly turned on.

“Playing nice guy for her because she won’t fuck you, huh?”

_This is going to end in a_ … She doesn’t have time to finish her thought before a fist is flying, landing on the guy’s nose with the characterised ‘crack’ of broken bones. A gasp escapes her lips as Killian receives a punch of his own – it’s all Victor and David need to jump in, quickly followed by Robin, against the jocks.

One black eye, one opened lip and several bruises later, they’re all kicked out of the club by a pissed-off owner.

Killian just grins at her.

“You’re a fucking idiot, Jones.”

…

Ignoring the careful glances the bartender sends their way every so often, Emma shamelessly stares at Killian – the still-open wound on his lip from biting on it like a five year old, the fading bruise on his cheekbone turning to a pale yellow, the stupid mope of hair falling on his forehead. She stares at his Adam’s apple as it bobs up and down when he sips his rum, stares at the way his long fingers flex around the glass, stares at his too-blue too-intense eyes.

She’s not even subtle about it. Fuck subtlety.

“Something you want to ask, love?”

He doesn’t even glance at her as he asks, just keep looking right in front of him at the many bottles of alcohol lining on the wall. It’s a quiet night, what with being in the middle of final exams and all, and the first time he joins her at the bar without having to get rid of another man first. The whole thing is unsettling in its novelty, but not unwelcomed, and Emma finds herself frowning at him.

“Yeah. No, I mean…” She coughs, takes a sip of whiskey. “Why do you always let me buy my own drinks?”

That’s what makes him finally look at her, eyebrow shooting up with a frown of his own – how he manages to do that, she’ll never know. He stays silent for long seconds, just staring at her like he wants to read her thoughts, or her soul. The frown deepens before he shakes his head with a hollow laugh.

“What do you want from me, Emma?” His voice is cold, his eyes serious. “Because I don’t want to be one of those fucking losers stupid enough to force beautiful women into accepting drinks. I’m not quite that desperate yet. So no, Emma, I won’t buy you a drink, because I still have some self-respect, thank you.”

Her jaw falls on its own accord, and she simple gapes at him as she tries to wrap her mind around his words. “Is it about what the guy said the other day? About fucking me?”

He winces, and it’s enough for her to feel stupidly self-absorbed. Of course it isn’t about her, why would it be, guys flirting with her like they would do any woman at a bar doesn’t suddenly makes her the centre of the whole universe… But she notices his grimace is not of disgust, but of pain, and it makes her gasp.

(A small part of her thinks that Killian Jones doesn’t fuck – he makes love.)

“Oh my god,  _it is_.”

He goes back to staring at the bottles while she keeps staring at him, and she’s the one frowning now as a hundred question stubble in her mind – how? when?  _why her_? It doesn’t make sense, but neither roleplaying with a stranger in a crowded bar did. Except he’s not a stranger anymore and he  _likes_  her, her cheeks burning at the mere thought.

On impulse, she bottoms up her whiskey.

“My glass is empty,” she says. “I’d like it not to be.”

She’s obvious in her intentions but she doesn’t care because, for the first time that night, a smile slowly blossoms on his lips.

“If the lady insists…”


	3. please don't stop the music

The only reason Emma even goes to the activities fair in the first place is to escape her dorm and her new roommate – not that there is anything wrong with Kathryn, mind you, she seems like a nice girl and all, but Emma just _doesn’t_ do socialising. Which makes attending the activities fair all the more ironical as she has no plan whatsoever to enrol in any of the campus clubs – her plan is actually quite simple: go to her classes, study, have good grades. Easy peasy. Making friends will wait until never, because she’s obviously not here for that.

That is, until some petite brunette with doe eyes and a kind smile clings to her with big words about the _Storybrooke Sirens_ – what even? – and how they need new members and oh you look so lovely do you sing or at least harmonize? Emma blinks, twice. First at the pixie brunette then at the banner above the stand of her club.

“Synchronised nerd singing, really? Yeah, no, I’m not your girl.”

The girl is about to go full puppy eyes on her when someone else appears out of freaking nowhere, jumping on her back, one arm wrapped around Emma’s shoulder like she _belongs_ there. The blonde is so stunned she doesn’t even have the reflex of shrugging off the newcomer, instead watches her leaning over her shoulder, black hair fanning between them, wolfish grin on her lips.

“Hey! Is it here for the all-girl a cappella band?”

The other girl doesn’t jump on the occasion – she pounces. “Yes! I’m Mary Margaret and this –” she points to another brunette behind her “is Regina. We’re the only two members of the Sirens left so we’re looking for new members. Repetitions, concerts, competitions… You name it.”

The one called Regina joins them soon enough – she’s aloof where Mary Margaret is a ball of energy, and Emma wonders how those two very different persons can get along. Not that she has time to think about it, because the girl still leaning against her back, Ruby apparently, shoots them a hundred questions excitingly, to which the two other girls answer as thoroughly and patiently as possible. Not that Emma cares, waiting for the right moment to run away from those crazy people – but still, she finds herself strangely fascinated by the passion they can pour in singing without backup instruments. People are just weird sometimes.

“Hey, Sirens,” some guy should from across the quad, catching the attention of the four of them. “Don’t bother, you know we’ll beat you anyway. _Again_.”

“Shut up, Robin. Nobody cares about your merry band of losers,” Regina shouts back.

The guy shrugs it off with a loud laugh, his friends already having a go at Pharrell Williams’ _Happy_. It soon catches everybody’s attention, people stopping to watch them perform and, Emma has to admit, it looks good enough – far from the image of uptight choir kids she had in mind. In fact, they seem to have a lot of fun, dancing and singing and flirting with their female crowd.

“Those are Robin and the _Merry Men_. Wish I was kidding. Band of losers.”

“Regina has a toner for Robin,” Mary Margaret adds with a grin.

“Am not! Anyway, there are four different a cappella groups on campus. Us, them, and two others nobody cares about. The Merry Men have beaten us to the regionals three years in a row, but we’re planning to change that this year.”

Emma doesn’t dare asking what a _toner_ is. Instead, she keeps watching the guys, how easily they move, how they grin and laugh with each other. It’s stupid, really, because she’s a sing-in-the-shower-only kind of girl, and she’s never been in any club before but it kind of… makes her want to?

(So much for not socializing, really.)

“So you’re saying that if we join, we’re the first in line to crush those dudes’ ego?”

They don’t answer – they simply grin at her.

 

…

 

(Turns out a toner is a musical boner. Go figure.)

(Also turns out she isn’t half bad at that synchronised nerd singing stuff.)

 

…

 

Between her classes and the Sirens rehearsals, Emma’s life becomes busy in the blink of an eye. If the essays she has to write don’t knock her out, then the dancing and singing does, leaving both her mind and body empty and sore. Which is all kinds of great to fall asleep in a second, mind you, but not all that great if she ever wants to catch her breath. But it’s a good kind of busy, one that she’s craved and, for the first time in forever, she actually manages to make some friends.

Even if she’s not on the best of terms with Regina – some friendships are just not meant to happen – she gets along well enough with the other girls – Ariel, and Bella, and Aurora, and Mulan, and that girl everyone calls Tink (she’s yet to know her real name). But mostly with Mary Margaret and Ruby, the three of them somewhat close by now, even outside of the band. They eat tacos together on Mondays and watch movies on Fridays, and Ruby _insists_ on doing their nails every weekend – the casual friendship between girls Emma is so not used to.

All in all, Emma falls into an easy pattern of a life, and she surprises herself by enjoying it. The girl talks she could do without, though – it’s not something she’s comfortable with, especially since her social life is an interstellar void. But that’s how she learns more about Regina’s crush on Robin – that’s been going on for two years, apparently – and about Mary Margaret’s high school sweetheart, who’s a Merry Man too despite both bands being basically enemies. (“It’s a bit like Romeo and Juliet. Without the double suicide. It’s _really_ romantic.” Mary Margaret’s words, not hers.)

Beside that and sometimes going to the same parties, Emma doesn’t know much about the Merry Men. Which makes ‘ _the_ meeting’, as Ruby would dub it later on, all the more unexpected.

She’s late to her Women’s Literature class, coffee in one hand and books in the other, walking as fast as possible, when someone bumps into her. She loses her balance and, between saving her coffee or her books, the choice is quickly made.

“Jerk,” she mutters under her breath as she bends down.

“Here, let me help you.”

She isn’t sure what surprises her more – the Irish accent or that someone would willingly help her with something as mundane. She doesn’t focus too much on it, though, because life isn’t a romantic comedy and she refuses to fall into the trap that are foreign students – that is, until she meets his eyes. She doesn’t gasp or do anything equally embarrassing, but she still stops in her tracks for a second there because she has never seen eyes so blue and so intense before.

Okay, maybe she gasps. Only a little.

“Thank you,” is all she manages to say at first, standing up and hugging the books to her chest.

That’s when she notices it – the unmistakable green hoodie they all wear, like some kind of uniform, like they want to prove they’re not below the athletes on campus. Of course. Of freaking course she had to run into a _Merry Man_. Just her luck.

“You’re welcome,” he replies. “Are you one of the Sirens?”

He toys with the red neckerchief she tied around the strap of her bag – she refuses to actually _wear it_ , but Regina insisted so bag it was – and Emma only finds herself nodding in a silent reply.

“I’ll see you at the riff-off tonight, then.” And then he’s swaggering away with a final wink and grin above his shoulder.

It takes her a few seconds to realise she hasn’t moved, hasn’t spoken and _what the fuck just happened_.

 

…

 

(“His name is Killian. He studies geography.”

She isn’t sure if it’s all Ruby knows about him, but it’s all she tells anyway.)

 

…

 

“Welcome to the riff-off!”

There are not a lot of places on campus for the singing nerds to gather, but Jefferson’s voice booms around the walls of the old gymnasium, followed by the cheers of the audience – they have an audience, Emma can barely wrap her mind around the idea. Seems like a cappella groups are more popular than she thought at first.

The Sirens and Merry Men face each other, Mary Margaret kissing David one last time before going back to her own group – all of them blatantly ignoring the two other bands Emma neither knows nor cares about. In that moment, it’s all about the competition between them as Jefferson goes on with explaining the rules of the riff-off. It’s a bit ridiculous, glaring at each other like two armies ready to go into battle, but exhilarating too.

“And the first category is…” Jefferson spins the virtual wheel and can’t help but bursts into laughter when it stops. “Songs ruined by Glee.”

The guys don’t miss a bit, like they’ve been waiting for that moment all their life, and jump in the middle of the circle formed by the different bands with infuriating grins as Robin takes the lead. Already, the audience is cheering and laughing, obviously entertained by the easy way of making fun of the stupid show.

“ _Can anybody find me somebody to love…_ ”

Emma has to admit: the guy can sing, and they aren’t half-bad at the chorus either. Which is all the more impressive on a Queen song, comes to think about it. But she doesn’t really have time to linger on it, for Ruby grabs her by the arm and furiously whispers something in her ear – Emma simply nods, waiting for the right moment to jump in.

“ _I have spent all my years in believing…_ ”

Regina cuts him off halfway through the line, her grin feral. But her magnificent “ _Don’t stop believin’!_ ” ends in a chuckle when Robin bows to her in mocking respect.

Still, David is quick enough to cut her “ _streetlights, people_ ” off with John Lennon’s Imagine and it goes downhill from there – they sure hold a grudge against the show, if anything else – until one of the other bands jumps in with Justin Bieber. Everyone else boo them until they’re eliminated because, obviously, you can’t ruin something that’s already bad on its own.

The third group gets kicked off with the Famous Duets category, so only the Sirens and Merry Men are left - to the surprise of no one ever.

“Okay, guys. Last round is… Songs about sex!” Jefferson laughs, jumping up and down on the spot, before he quickly adds, “First one to use Blurred Lines is out!”

Not that people are really listening to him anyway, because Emma and Killian immediately make a run for it like their life depends on it. She only beats him by a second and doesn’t even bother to hide her grin as she gestures for him to step back, the lyrics almost low and teasing in her mouth.

“ _Hey Sister, Go Sister, Soul Sister, Go Sister…_ ”

It doesn’t take long for Mary Margaret and Ruby to jump in, if only because their watching Moulin Rouge! only a week earlier had led to a rendition of the song – probably why it popped up in her mind immediately – while the other girls do a good job as background singers. As she’s grinding against Ruby, Mary Margaret doing the same behind her, Emma can only smirk because it is the perfect song – not many opportunities for the guys to jump in and hijack their performance.

And what a performance they’re offering, dancing and shaking their heads, hands in their hair and on their bodies. David’s jaw is on the floor as he keeps staring at his girlfriend and, when Emma’s eyes fall on Killian’s, it’s to the intense heat in his eyes as he stares right back at her. Body tense, like he’s physically forcing himself not to move, he only licks his lips and stares, his thoughts more and more obvious with each passing second.

It really isn’t a surprise that they finish the song without being interrupted, breaking into cheers before Jefferson even agree to their victories. Regina flicks Robin on the nose with a wicked grin while they all laugh and high-five and jump up and down.

Emma is about to join in, tempted to jump on Ruby’s back as a payback for the activities fair, when someone grabs her wrist and, before she understands what is happening, she lands against Killian’s chest as he wraps his arm around her neck. Her cheeks are warmer as she looks up at him and loses herself once more in the deep of his blue eyes – damn, being that attractive should be illegal, and she hasn’t even heard him singing yet.

“You’re so bloody unfair,” he whispers, hot breaths dancing against her lips, before letting her go.

 

…

 

(“So, are we going to talk about Emma’s huge toner for Killian or what?”)


	4. the crimes of love

“Jones.” She enters the room, not even bothering to glance up from the file she’s reading as she walks to the chair, brows furrowed. She doesn’t even have to look at him to know he’s grinning at her like a fool, and that thought alone has her roll her eyes as she sits down. “Hadn’t seen you in a while, almost thought you’d finally gotten on the right side of the law.”

“And miss our little tête-à-têtes? _Nay_.”

Even if she manages not to reply to his quip – the last thing she needs right now is to throw herself into a battle of wits with him – her lips still curve into the tiniest of smirks. She can’t help him if she loves their banter and how he keeps her on her toes at all times. Something not many men are able to do, may she add.

“So… You robbed a bank.”

“Allegedly. I _allegedly_ robbed a bank, darling.”

“Sure.”

But that has always been the problem – in the almost ten years she’s been working for the federal bureau, she’s linked him to two dozens crimes, never able to lock him away. The man is a ghost, never leaving evidence behind him – not a single hair, not a trace of DNA, absolutely nothing. Emma still doesn’t know if she hates him or admire him for that. Though, she has to admit, the fact that he stayed around the crime scene is new in his pattern – something is off with him, she can feel it.

“Why are you here, Jones? Beside wasting my time.”

“I’m here to offer my help.”

She can’t help it – she snickers. “ _You_ want to be come a CI?”

“I’m no snitch!” The pout he offers he is downright indignant, her smirk only growing bigger. “But you and I have a common goal.”

“I’m listening.”

He scratches his neck, looking away from her – is that really _nervousness_? – before his gaze settles on the surveillance camera above the door. “Off the record. And alone.”

She hesitates for a second there, because this man is the textbook definition of cockiness, and this sudden change de demeanour throws her off a bit – whatever he has to tell her, it may be good, or dangerous, or both. With a sigh, she moves her hand in front of her throat in a back and forth motion until the red dot of the camera goes out, and then stares at the one-way mirror with a little tilt of the chin. She doesn’t have to check, just knows Robin understood the message and left the room.

Jones glares at the camera for a second more before folding his arms on the table and leaning forwards – Emma finds herself mirroring him, as if he’s about to reveal some deep secret she’s only privy of.

“Gold,” he says, almost too dramatically. Her eyebrows shoot in surprise at the mention of the criminal mastermind and _gosh Jones what have you done this time_. “You want him gone, don’t you?”

“Of course we do. But why do _you_ care?”

Something dark settles in his eyes then, pupils so big they swallow away the blue and, for the first time, Emma sees the criminal behind the gentleman. It brings shivers down her spine, how dangerous he looks right now. It’s the same man who has no qualm working with Pan’s organization, fearless and feral. It should probably scare her – it has quite the opposite effect, actually.

“Don’t ask questions you don’t want the answers to, love.”

“Look at you, afraid to hurt my feelings. Talk. _Now_.”

He leans back against his chair, stretching his arms as he looks away and licks his lips, before leaning forwards again, closer. “He killed the woman I loved. Killed her right in front of my eyes and took everything from me. Trust me when I say I want him gone more than you do.”

The confession comes as a surprise, and Emma’s eyes widen a bit with his words. She always tries not to focus on the criminals’ set of mind, if only not to empathise with their actions, but he just rubbed it in her face and she can’t ignore it anymore. Killian Jones is a human being, with a past and feelings, with motivations she can only understand, not just the guy she’s been playing cat and mouse with for years, and it turns her world upside down for a second or two.

“Anyway, I’ve been tracking him for months now, and I finally have a plan of action, but this isn’t a one-man job so…”

“Why me?” She realises how misleading her question might be, but so does he if the little smirk is any indication, so she adds, “Why turning to the FBI when you could easily ask your network of petty thieves?”

He leans even closer, eyes burning in her with a sudden passion. “Because, strangely as it sounds, I trust you. And who knows, perhaps we’ll keep working together after that.”

Her chuckle is low as she shakes her head, barely believing his cockiness. “Sorry to break it to you, but life isn’t a USA Network show.”

He titles his head, obviously not missing the Matt Bomer comparison as she smiles sweetly, bottom lip stuck between his teeth – and, gosh, who allowed criminals to look that handsome seriously. “Is that a yes, then?”

“That’s definitely not a no. Keep talking.”


	5. once upon a date

“Come on, Emma. It’s the 21th century, everyone does it!” Ruby had said as she gave her the name of the website, and that alone – _Once Upon A Date_ – should have been enough for her not to even check the thing in the first place. And yet here she is, staring at the cheesy website with an equality cheesy slogan about true love or some other bullshit, cursor hovering over the ‘register’ button as she bites on her nail and weighs the pros and cons.

In the ends, the pros – it’s free and she’s bored anyway – win and Emma finds herself pouring a large glass of wine before she starts typing her age and location, purposefully avoiding to upload a profile picture – the last thing she wants are some creeps harassing her for a one-night stand, thank you very much.

Which happens anyway, mind you, as she spends more time deleting gross messages from gross perverts than she does actually communicating with interesting bachelors living in the city. And when she does, when some guy actually catches her attention for more than thirty seconds, she’s barely even surprised that they go MIA the moment she – surprise, surprise – mentions Henry.

She downs her glass at the next ‘hey babe wanna have some fun ;)’ as she curses Ruby and her oh so brilliant ideas. Seriously, she’s not even that eager to find someone, not after the disaster that was her relationship with Walsh. She’s actually about to give up and delete the account, because this was all a terrible mistake, when a new message appears in her askbox. Curiosity wins out.

_DashingRapscallion: "Let music sound while he doth make his choice; Then, if he lose, he makes a swan-like end, Fading in music." – The Merchant of Venice_

She stares at the unexpected message for a very long time – what kind of a user name is _that_ – who greets you with lines from _freaking Shakespeare_ – before she snickers to herself because it works, it actually has her intrigued by this stranger. Clever bastard.

_SwanSong: Do you always use the Bard to catch a woman’s attention?_

She isn’t exactly sure if it reads as flirty or sarcastic – or both, who knows with the Internet – but doesn’t really care about it either. Still, his reply comes back only seconds later.

_DashingRapscallion: Only with a user name as intriguing as yours. And well, it did catch your attention, didn’t it?_

_DashingRapscallion: The name is Killian, by the way._

When she helps herself to another glass of wine, it is for a whole different reason, leaning back against her chair with a smile on her lips. She opens his profile in a new tab, just to check, but he doesn’t have a profile picture either, and only the basic info – male, 30, lives in Brooklyn. Nothing much, but perhaps it is for the best.

_SwanSong: I’m Emma. Nice to meet you._

_DashingRapscallion: Likewise. So, what do you do for a living?_

_SwanSong: I’m a bail bond person. You?_

She can feel herself being bad that this, the online small talk, and it makes her cringe, because it is all too ridiculous and she isn’t supposed to care about the opinion of some stranger on the Internet. Especially some stranger she will never meet and who will probably stop replying in a couple of minutes.

_DashingRapscallion: I’m a musician. Well, composer, really. I write songs for TV ads and shitty reality shows._

_SwanSong: Nothing I’ve heard off?_

_DashingRapscallion: Know that cereal ad with the singing crocodiles? That was me._

_SwanSong: Holy shit, I hate it with a burning passion! My son kept singing it for days, it was driving me crazy._

She bites on the nail of her thumb, knowing it is the moment of truth – either he replies or she can say goodbye to the mysterious rapscallion that has her curious.

At the same moment, Henry comes back to reality between two Diablo quests and turns his head towards her to ask for some food. She glances at the clock in the kitchen before standing up to grab the menu on her fridge – it is Friday night and she’s too lazy to cook, so pizzas it will be. Henry whoops before asking for his usual Margarita, and it takes her barely three minutes to dial the number and order.

By the time she settles back in front of her laptop, two new messages are awaiting her.

_DashingRapscallion: Oh, you’re a mother._

_DashingRapscallion: How old is the lad?_

A fact and a question, which is always better than nothing – at least she didn’t spook this one quite yet. Still she frowns at her screen, confused as to whether or not the question is a genuine one, whether or not this Killian guy actually cares enough about some stranger on this Internet to ask such a thing. She remains still for a few minutes, fingers hovering over her keyboard, as her brain screams that this is too personal already and that she should stop there, close the tab and forget about that catastrophic attempt at 21th century flirting.

_SwanSong: He’s twelve. Got kids of your own?_

She hits ‘enter’ before she can second-guess what she’s doing, almost immediately regretting it. She’s not usually that reckless, especially not on the Internet – she knows how easily you can find someone with just a Facebook update all too well – and especially not when Henry is involved. This pseudo-anonymity doesn’t suit her, and yet she keeps replying, like she can’t exactly help herself.

She takes a large gulp of wine to wash out the strange feeling at the back of her throat, waiting for an answer that takes time to arrive.

_DashingRapscallion: Nay, I never got the chance. One day, maybe._

Whatever she plans on replying, something along the lines of _you’re not like other men do you know that_ , is forgotten when someone rings the bell, startling her away from her screen.

“Well, that was fast,” Henry deadpans, not even looking away from his video game.

They eat their pizza in front of Cartoon Network, because they’re just mature like that, and then Henry decides he hasn’t crushed her at Mario Kart in a while and needs to change that. He spends the next hour beating her race after race until her pride can no longer take it and she settles on watching him play Diablo instead – he refuses to have her play along since he reached level 25, which she doesn’t mind, really.

Emma only remembers her laptop once Henry is gone to bed, and she takes it, along with a nice glass of wine, to the couch with her, nestling with a blanket before she focuses back on the conversation she had earlier.

_SwanSong: Sorry. Still here?_

This might be wishful thinking, because it’s literally been hours and, had she been in his shoes, she would have given up already. Which clearly makes the reply all the more unexpected and surprising.

_DashingRapscallion: Aye, love, still here for you._

It is way past 4am when she goes to bed, knowing more about him – he’s Irish, moved to New York when he was seventeen and is an orphan just like her, among other things – and with one more Skype contact.

 

…

 

They establish rules quickly enough: no picture, no social network, no forcing the other into a date they’re not ready for. As strange as it sounds, it works, and quite well may she add.

They don’t speak every day but when they do it’s for hours, once Henry is asleep and the apartment dark and silent. What is mindless small talk at first – subway was the worst this morning, you’ll never guess what happened at Starbucks today, my boss is awful I want to kill him – turns more and more personal with each passing day. She feels her walls growing thinner, feels this almost stranger finding his place in her life, like he just belongs there, and it surprises her how little she cares. Perhaps because of the whole not-showing-my-face thing, perhaps because she could stop it all in a second if it becomes too dangerous, too personal, _too much_. But Emma never actually closes off, not with him.

And, just like that, the conversations are deeper, sharing secrets and untold confessions – it all starts when he asks if Henry’s father is still in the picture and goes downhill from there. She tells him about Walsh and the failed proposal, learns about his brother in return, her childhood in foster family against his in an Irish orphanage, the Swans against his mother’s death, Neal’s betrayal against Milah’s murder.

It is weirdly cathartic, letting a stranger take a good look at her soul.

 

…

 

_Killian: You know the best thing about being a musician? Many will tell you it’s the first seconds on stage, or when the audience sings back to you – those people are horrible liars I’m afraid. The best moment comes after the show, when people come and speak with you, still a little sweaty and breathless from the singing along and the dancing. They have that sparkle in their eyes, like you helped them forget all their problems if only for an hour or so. It’s so worth it._

_Killian: Tonight there was this lad, barely older than yours (should I be worried about him being out so late, by the way? probably), and he came to me after the show. We spent an hour or so talking about guitars and how to play and which songs were our favourites – I even showed him how to master Johnny B Good. And just the look in his eyes… I like to think an artist is born tonight. Perhaps the next Hendrix or Clapton? We’ll see._

_Killian: Anyway…_

_Sending killian-jones-wonderwall-cover.mp3_

Emma laughs at the self-deprecation obviously shown in that last line and sent file, actually snorts in her cereals when she reads it, Henry throwing her a sideway glance before going back to his own breakfast. Still, she finds herself reading the few lines over and over again, fascinated – Skype says it was sent around midnight, and warmth spreads in her chest at the thought of him sending her this message the first thing he did going home last night. They’ve grown closer over the weeks, yes, but it still surprises her at times, how open they are to each other. She smiles around a mouthful of cereals before downloading the song and typing a reply.

_Emma: Aw, look at you, bro. All hoodie and fedora!_

_Emma: I didn’t know you were playing live though. I just imagine you in a dark room, recording bad tunes and hissing at the outside world._

She knows he isn’t online, the little yellow dot next to his name silently taunting her as he’s still probably asleep even if his computer is still on – it is quite early, after all. Not for the first time, she finds herself trying to picture him, never agreeing with herself on the hair colour or facial features, even as she imagines him snuggling his pillow with a lazy yet satisfied smile.

And, not for the first time, Henry snaps her out of her thoughts.

It is the early evening when she sits in front of her laptop again, muscles sore from running after a perp and cheek now feature a nice bruise from being punched – never let it be said her job is a boring one. The blue Skype icon jumping up and down is a sight for sore eyes, really.

_Killian: Ay, I play at the Jolly Roger on Wednesdays and Fridays. You should come by once, if you feel like it._

_Killian: I will try not to take offense in you picturing me as some frat boy, by the way._

Even as she forces herself not to reply to the open invitation, a grin blossoms on her lips. And, well, if the song plays on repeat on her phone all week long when she’s in the subway, it’s just one of those things that happens.

(Gosh, does that velvet crooning voice do things to her. He’s unfair.)

 

…

 

The little restaurant Ruby picked for them to have lunch is lovely for once, not too tacky or too expensive like most places she usually wants to try. Emma even has to admit it is _nice_ , eating out in the back garden when the sun peaks out. She keeps smiling and laughing at Mary Margaret’s streaks of bad luck in the planning of her wedding, teasing her about how it’s a sign it isn’t meant to happen. Her petite friend only makes faces at her, which has her laugh even more.

“Laugh all you want, but you still haven’t told me if you’re bringing a plus one or not.”

“Her plus one is virtual,” Ruby replies immediately, earning one threatening glare from Emma and a curious one from a clueless Mary Margaret.

Emma almost feels bad about not telling her best friend, especially knowing how close they usually are – she actually remembers the phone call only minutes after David proposed – but to be honest she has tried to keep… whatever is happening with Killian as low key as possible. Ruby only knows because Emma turned red at her seemingly innocent ‘how’s online dating?’, unwanted body reactions be damned.

She’s actually about to open her mouth, because she’d rather talk about it in her own words than have Ruby twisting the whole story to make it look more dramatic, when her phone starts buzzing. She grabs it, a grin curling up her lips only seconds later. Ruby sighs, as loudly as possible, and points an accusatory finger at her as she explains the situation to Mary Margaret.

“She met a guy online and now they’re snapchatting like sixteen year-olds with a crush. It’s disgusting. _You’re_ disgusting, Emma Swan.”

“We’re not acting like…” But another buzz interrupts her and, pressing her finger to the screen, she can only snort at the picture that appears. Ruby points at her more furiously. “It’s a serious and mature relationship between two adults… and he sends me silly pictures when he’s bored, no big deal.”

But, if Ruby’s raised eyebrows and Mary Margaret’s pensive pout are any indication, it does sound like a big deal. Not that it matters. Killian is funny and nice and always eager to lift up her moods at the end of a bad day, but that’s it – nothing more, no date, no couple, no complication. Just two faceless people talking on the Internet. _No big deal_.

(She isn’t sure whom she is trying to convince right now.)

“Is he at least cute?” Mary Margaret asks.

Ruby bursts into laughter and Emma folds her arms on the table to hide her face, leaving their friend even more confused. Not for long, though, as Ruby takes a perverse pleasure in taunting the blonde about the whole story. “That’s the thing. _She doesn’t know_. Never seen him, never sent a picture, _nothing_.”

“Emma, honey, why would you do that?”

She’s rather impressed by the lack of condescendence in Mary Margaret’s tone, her voice laced with concern instead. Of course. Leave it to the most mature of the group to worry about perverts and sexually deranged on the Internet.

“It doesn’t matter, okay? I’m not planning to meet him anyway.”

As if on cue, her phone buzzes yet again – she’ll have to talk to him about his addiction to Snapchat, seriously – and she grabs it once more, feeling more than seeing Ruby’s victorious grin as she smiles at the picture he sent her – a fedora, with the mention ‘bought it just for you’.

“Yeah. Sorry to break it to you, girl, but you’re not fooling anyone.”

“Am I the only one wondering what he looks like?” Mary Margaret asks, obviously unhelpful because, no, of course not she isn’t, Emma spends hours lying in bed wondering which shade of blue his eyes actually are. Because they are blue, she just knows it.

“Well, just one way to find out,” Ruby adds as she grabs her own phone.

Emma watches, helpless, as her friend googles Killian’s name – why did she tell her his full name, _why_ – and waits for the page to load. It doesn’t take long, her eyes widening all of a sudden, and she gapes between the screen and Emma. She feels a shiver down her spine, blood turning to ice in her veins, afraid to ask, to wonder, to see.

Mary Margaret doesn’t share her issues, grabbing Ruby’s wrist to tilt the screen and watch. “ _Oh_. He’s easy on the eyes.” It almost makes Emma smile, how unwilling her friend is to agree that David might not be the only good-looking one on Earth.

“Understatement of the millennium.”

It can only mean one thing in Ruby-talk: hot as fuck.

 

…

 

She is glad Henry is spending the night at Avery’s when she comes back home so late the apartment is plunged into total darkness. She doesn’t feel like turning on the lines, let alone cooking something, waddling to her bedroom only to fall face first on her bed with a groan of contentment. The heels are the first one to be thrown across the room, soon followed by her jacket and jeans, before she snuggles under the warmth of her blanket.

The apartment is oddly quiet, enough for her to hear the kitchen clock ticking, and it doesn’t get long for it to get on her nerves – even the city that never sleeps feels like it has gone into a coma tonight. She sighs, trying for a few minutes to find a comfortable position to fall asleep before giving up and grabbing her phone on the bedside table. The bright light of the screen has her squint as she checks her emails, then Facebook, before playing some stupid game in hope it will finally wear her down – it doesn’t.

Still, her mind is cloudy by exhaustion, which may explain why she finds herself going through her contact list, not second-guessing her actions as her thumb presses the ‘dial number’ button. He picks up after two rings.

“Emma?”

She feels her blood turning cold at her name on his lips, at hearing his voice, at the consequences of that phone call – it was only supposed to be a casual friendship on the Internet, she poured her soul to him and now she calls when she needs comfort, _what is happening_. She swallows, forces a smile into her voice.

“Hey. Hi. Sorry, I know I only have your number for emergencies but…”

“Don’t fret, lass. You can call me whenever you want, I don’t mind.”

His accent is stronger than when he sings, Irish origins obvious in the lilt of his voice, and she lets that sooth her as she settles back against her pillow. This may be a mistake, and she will most likely deal with the consequences later, but she forgets all about it with a low sigh.

“Are you all right?”

She isn’t even surprised by the concern in his voice – someone cares about her, how odd. “Yeah, yeah, just a long day, is all… My friend googled you today.”

His laugh is low and deep, barely more than a chuckle. “Of course she did…” She rolls her eyes at his tone, at the underlining meaning behind his words. “Am I to your liking, milady?”

“I don’t know. I refused to watch.”

He only hums as a reply, perhaps a little dubious, and that’s when she notices the sound coming from his side of the line – the muted but still distinctive melody of a guitar. She smiles to herself, imagining his phone stuck between his shoulder and cheek as his fingers play with the cords, but it calms her even more than his voice does, as they both remain silent for a while.

She somewhat recognizes the song he’s playing, not enough to put a name on it though, but enough for her to closer her eyes and relax. “You’re good, you know,” she whispers as a secret, a confession. “You should fill Madison Square instead of writing for crappy ads.”

His laugh misses the playful edge to it this time, almost cold. “I’d rather keep you company than have groupies throwing themselves at me, thank you very much.”

She doesn’t allow herself to dwell on his words – not now, later, she’ll deal with all of that later – instead snuggling against her pillow and closing her eyes. “Yeah, you’re stuck with me now.”

“Mine is an awful fate.”

Still he doesn’t stop playing, the melody turning softer and slower, like he perfectly knows why she is silent – perfectly knows she’s using him as her personal lullaby. His voice raises up after a few minutes, in a language she doesn’t know – Gaelic? – and Emma turns on the speakers before hugging one of the pillows to her chest.

She wakes up in the middle of the night in a startle, only to find him still on the phone, still playing. She glances at the alarm clock on the window ledge, sleepy eyes widening when she realises it is way past three in the morning.

“Dude, you didn’t hang up.”

“No,” he replies in a laugh. “You snore, by the way.”

“Ah ah.” She forces herself not to rub her eyes, if only to make sure she will fall back to sleep in a matter of seconds. “Good night, Killian.”

“Aye…” The song slowly fades away, and she can hear him finally putting the guitar aside. “Oh, Emma?”

“Yeah?”

“Jolly Roger, tonight. First song will be dedicated to you.”

“Yeah, we’ll see. _Good night, Killian_.”

“Sleep well, love.”

(And when hours later she wakes up, there is only one consequence to be dealt with: _I’m falling for him_.)

 

…

 

 _This is a mistake_ , she thinks for the hundredth time as she orders her drink at the bar before sitting in a dark corner of the room. _Such a terrible mistake_.

She has left Henry alone with his Diablo and enough pizza to feed a whole regiment, all that in the name of meeting some guy she has met on the Internet. No, not some guy, she no longer kids herself, not after so many hours over the phone the night before. She can no longer pretend nothing is happening between them despite never seeing each other, can no longer pretend she doesn’t like him to a certain extend – doesn’t _love_ him already. So she sighs and takes a sip of her whiskey, ignoring the knot in her stomach – she’s not a teenager with a crush, damn it, so why does her body insist on acting like one?

She’s so focused on the text Ruby just sent her, knuckles turning white around her phone, that she’s startled when she hears his voice in the microphone as he introduces himself. She doesn’t move at first, afraid to turn her head and finally look at him, heart beating faster in her chest with each passing second.

“The first song is dedicated to a very special lady. I’m not sure if she’s here tonight, but this is for her.” He clears his throat before his fingers start plucking the cords, voice rising soon after. “ _Get out your guns, battles begun, are you a saint, or a sinner?_ ”

She recognizes the song, if only because it’s one of those Ruby likes to sing, especially drunk – one of those songs that stay with you, even when belt by your best friend in the middle of the night. And now he’s singing it for her, _to her_ , and that simple thought brings shivers down her spine as she slowly, finally, turns around to look at him.

 _Easy on the eyes_ , Mary Margaret has said and Emma has to agree with Ruby on that point – it is quite an understatement. He’s a sigh to behold, red acoustic guitar on his lap and mouth so close to the microphone his nose is pressed against it, lost in the music. And yes, he _is_ quite handsome, with the scruff and the dark mope of hair and the piercing eyes – blue, just like she thought – and the, oh god, fedora on his head. (What a dork.)

The music fades away eventually and she finds herself clapping along with the other patrons as he scans the room, looking for someone – looking for her and _gosh what is she doing here?_ The question comes back to haunt her, again and again, as he keeps playing songs after songs for an hour or so.

As if on cue, when people are still clapping and he leaves the stage, she receives a text from Ruby – ‘go get him, tiger!’ – that has her looking around just in case. But she doesn’t find her friend and instead drinks her whiskey in one go, for good measure, before walking to the bar counter he now leans against, ordering his own drink.

“Killian?” she calls, ignoring the knots that are back in full swing in her stomach.

He turns around, the small frown on his brows disappearing as recognition flashes through his widening eyes. Hands in her pockets, she blushes as he takes her in, front head to toes and up again, and bites on her bottom lip with a small shrug – definitely a teenager with a crush. Still, his silence worries her, panicking thoughts crashing in her mind – oh gosh what if he doesn’t like her – he’s probably into brunettes – he’s probably into women like Ruby – guys are always into women like Ruby –

“ _Holy shit_.”

She blinks up at him but he doesn’t give her the luxury of being surprised by his curse as he offers her one dazzling grin, hand coming up to cup her chin. She leans against his touch with an uncertain, almost shy, smile of her own, drowning in the blue of his eyes. And then he’s kissing her, soft and slow, a moan stuck at the back of her throat as she presses herself against him. His hand tangles in her hair, other arm around her waist, keeping her close, as he sighs against her mouth and bites on her lip to deepen the kiss.

They only break apart when the bartender clears his throat, startling them both, and Killian immediately grins down at her like a kid on Christmas morning. He puts his hat on her head with a nod of approval, grin turning into smirk, before he presses his lips to her, quickly, like he can’t help himself.

“I’m not taking my eyes off you for a second now, love.”

She can only grin back. “I’d despair if you did.”

He kisses her again, bartender and public indecency be damned.


	6. meet me at comic con

“I’ll kill you, Ruby,” she deadpans for what feels like the hundredth time that day. “I have a katana, _I will kill you_.”

Ruby unsurprisingly brushes the threat off with a shrug and one of her wolfish grins, apparently very amused by the way Emma keeps tugging on her skirt, as if it will magically grow longer if she tries hard enough – though, she has to admit she isn’t one to complain when Mary Margaret’s outfit doesn’t have a skirt at all. Or pants, for all it matters. Seriously, how the usually shy girl manages to walk around only wearing a hooded coat and be fine with it, Emma will never know.

“No, you won’t,” Ruby singsongs, her grin growing bigger and a bit smug around the edges. “Come on, _Babydoll_ , embrace the sexiness.”

The sharp retort is on Emma’s lips because, seriously, it is easy for Ruby to embrace the sexiness when her Blondie steampunk outfit is the one featuring actual pants, but a look from Mary Margaret, along with a disapproving shake of the head, cuts her short, and Emma only sighs in defeat. Still she lets go of the handle of her fake weapon with a roll of the eyes, just to be sure the message is understood.

It’s late and she is exhausted and her feet hurt and – and gross fanboys have been groping her all day long despite her murderous glares. She simply wants to go back to their hotel room and take a long hot shower before slipping into comfy clothes for the festivities of the night. Is it that much to ask?

A cough and an “Excuse me?” are all she needs to understand that, yes, too much to ask indeed.

“No,” she says before she even turns around to face the newcomer. “No more picture and no copping a feel.”

But then she finds herself nose to nose with, well, Captain Hook apparently, in all his red coat and waxed moustache glory, and that sight alone is enough to startle her, mouth and eyes wide opened. He just smirks, which is incredibly ridiculous in that costume, and doesn’t even pretend not to stare her down – she would fold her arms on her chest in annoyance if it didn’t make her cleavage all the more noticeable.

“As tempting as the idea is, and really, it is,” vague hand gesture to all of her, “that’s not why I’m here.”

She raises an eyebrow at him, which turns into raising both eyebrows when a petite blonde with a green dress and fake wigs – definitely Tinkerbelle – jumps on the guy’s back in a gleeful laugh. “Oh great, he found you! So, just so you know, your Madam Gorski is totally making out with our Robin Hood. Which, great, right? I’m a fan of true love and all, so great. But they’re kinda making a scene soooo…”

Eyes wider, if it’s even possible, at the word vomit she just witnessed, Emma looks above her shoulder to see that, indeed, their little group misses one person, then to the direction pointed by the little blonde. Regina making out with a guy in green tights, barely hidden behind the Marvel booth, is a sight to behold – thankfully it is the end of the day so the guards are no longer caring, because they could have been kicked out with the amount of touching and groping involved in that kiss.

Emma sighs – _why_ , why does this keep happening?

It takes no less than ten minutes to convince the lover birds to stop whatever they’re doing, and Emma is giving up on her shower with each passing second. Indeed, once they’re finally out of the convention centre, it is time to eat already, and it’s all to naturally that the girls find themselves packed in a tiny McDonald’s booth with half the Disney cast – definitely not the kind of evening they had planned.

Captain Hook – whose name is Killian, apparently – sits next to her, and Emma forces herself not to focus on his thigh against hers or the way she all too naturally steals his fries while one of his friends, a guy named August, tells them of their adventures of the day. They speak loudly and laugh even louder, but the whole fast food is full of cosplayers anyway so nobody scolds them for the noise.

Killian keeps smiling at her, which makes her all the more glad that he decided to drop the wig at some point, because it allows her to focus on his blue eyes instead of the ridiculous fake hair. He smiles and bites his bottom lip and whispers to her ear, definitely copping a feel with the way his hand lays on her thigh, thumb drawing circle on her bare skin.

Emma doesn’t know if it’s the madness of Comic Con or simply the fact that she will never see him again after this weekend, but either way she just lets him, and flirts back at him shamelessly. It feels good, somehow, to have fun with a total stranger, no string attached and no expectations. It makes her feel powerful, and she loves it.

“Hey guys, do you have tickets for tonight’s screening?” Ruby asks all of a sudden.

And of course they do, because nobody can say no to Zachary Levy, especially when it involves movies on a giant screen in a giant stadium. _Especially_ when it involves Pacific Rim, apparently. Which of course leads to one big debate as they make their way to said stadium, and Emma simply rolls her eyes at the level of dorkiness of her friends as she walks a few feet behind them – rolls her eyes too when the pirate starts walking slower to have an excuse to be next to her. She can’t hide her smile, though, because he’s a nerd and he’s sexy and he _likes_ her. It’s the kind of things that usually happens to Regina or Ruby, not her, so she enjoys it while it lasts.

They find a nice little patch of grass in the middle of the stadium, Mary Margaret in a heated argument about Godzilla with their Prince Charming that has them all smirking knowingly. The grass is cold and the air chilly now that the sun is setting so Emma folds her arms to rub them with her palms, hoping against hope that it will not get any colder. That’s why she wanted to go back to the hotel room, she thinks bitterly. But before she can be vocal about it, the need to complain to Ruby too strong to be tamed, something heavy and red falls on her shoulders – it takes a few seconds to realise what it is and, when she turns her head to Killian, he winks at her with a grin.

Stupidly adorable nerd.

So really, it isn’t all that surprising that at some point during the movie, she finds herself sitting between his legs, leaning against his chest as he wraps an almost protective arm around her waist. They cheer at every battle against the kaiju and laugh at every joke but, mostly, she tries not to be too distracted by the way he kisses her shoulder and tugs on one of her ponytails. She tries, and fails miserably.

“Want to get out of here?” he asks after a while.

“And miss Idris Elba’s speech?” she replies with a smirk that has him groan, forehead falling on her shoulder. She laughs.

Still, it takes less than five minutes and his fingers grazing her bare stomach for them to make a (not so) discreet exit – she’s pretty sure one of his friends catcall them, but doesn’t find it in herself to care. They barely makes it to the street, now empty after the events of the day, before he cups her face and kisses her. She expected hot and hurried but he takes his time, soft and almost shy as he learns the contours of her mouth until she moans against his lips.

(Still, because he’s just _that_ adorable and her feet hurt just _that_ much from a day in high heels, he offers her a piggy ride to his hotel room. She laughs loudly as she jumps on his back, kisses and bites the tender skin of his neck until they find themselves in the lobby, panting and definitely horny like teenagers.)

They makes it to his hotel room in a tangle of limbs and breathless moans, laughing as they fall on the bed, hands touching and mapping and teasing. “Keep the costume on,” he purrs to her ear, voice low and hoarse that goes straight to her core, hand caressing the patch of skin just above her knee-high sock.

She happily obliges.

 

…

 

And the next year, at the Nerd HQ party, Killian finds himself talking with Nathan Fillion (how that even happened in the first place, she will never know) and she swears he has a nerdasgm when, after gloating about meeting his girlfriend here just _right here he totally banged her at Comic Con_ , Captain Reynold himself high-fives him. He giggles like a schoolgirl for a good half an hour, and she rolls her eyes even as she kisses that goofy grin of his.

Also, he definitely convinces her to cosplay as Han and Leia. Just because.


	7. improv everywhere

Things start, as they always tend to do, with Ruby.

She explains the whole event in so many words, but Killian only lingers on two ideas. No pants. In the subway. Which suddenly makes him glad he dropped the British lingo a few years back, because the prospect of taking the subway with no underwear is one he never wants to experiment. Not that Ruby cares all that much anyway, speaking with her hands and giving him too many details he’ll never remember, ecstatic about the whole thing. Because she apparently grew tired of showing her assets in Victoria’s Secret panties to her roommate (him) and is now ready to do so with the entire population of New York.

How very Ruby of her.

But he has a day off and was planning to spend it watching reruns of Law and Order anyway, so he agrees to go with Ruby to what he already dubbed the infamous No Pants Subway Ride of 2014. Which is why he finds himself at Foley Square on a cold January afternoon, along with some five hundred other people, wondering what happened in his life that led to that particular moment. Not that he can withdraw now anyway, because Ruby forced him into his Peter Pan briefs (the ones she gave him on his thirtieth birthday as a joke) and is now holding on to his arm, nails digging in the leather of his jacket, like she reads his thoughts and know what he’s planning to do.

Killian sighs and accepts his fate.

That’s when a blonde woman, beanie on her head and megaphone in hand, uses the fountain as a vantage point, all smiles and excited bounces. A kid with a video camera in hand follows her just as she chants, “Welcome to the tenth annual No Pants Subway Ride!” and the crowd goes wild. Killian is pretty sure he tumbles into another dimension at this point, but the excitation is infectious and Ruby is jumping up and down next to him, so he finds himself grinning when people improvise a ‘happy birthday’ song that has the woman laugh in her megaphone.

“Not only is this crazy ride of ours a decade old, but it’s also worth noting that it’s happening in sixty cities, in twenty-five countries, all over the world!” She takes a break right there for the crowd to cheer some more, but Killian can only focus on her grin and how happy it is, stretching from ear or ear and showing perfectly white teeth. It doesn’t hurt that she looks pretty damn beautiful too, from where he stands. “Okay so before we begin, who’s the oldest among us today?”

It takes a few moments to find that person, a man in his seventies wearing a beret. And the youngest is a two-month-old girl named Alexandra, to which the woman laughs even louder and comments with a simple, “You guys are crazy people.”

She gives them a few more instructions – the importance of not breaking out of character and to pretend they have no idea why everyone else around them isn’t wearing pants either, along with what to reply to people asking what is going on – and reminds them of the after-party happening on this very same square at five. The participants are then divided into several groups, not to clog up a single line, and it’s only a matter of minutes before Killian finds himself taking off his jeans in a subway carriage.

Of course, and much to his lack of surprise, Ruby puts on a show with the way she strips down to her underwear, swaying her hips as she takes off her skirt and causing a scene with her three-mile-long legs bare for everyone to see, the high heels doing wonders to her everything, and the red fabric of her panties. Killian wonders how many men she’ll rebuff today, and if he’ll have to play her boyfriend once more.

(The answer is yes, arm throw over her shoulders almost possessively and glaring at any attempt at a pass from gross men who don’t know their place.)

Still, all in all, they have fun. Killian stops caring about people taking his picture after about ten minutes and even blinks down at an old lady who asks him why he doesn’t wear any pants, to which he replies innocently “Because it’s cold today.” He would almost feel bad about the woman’s confused face, but Ruby snickers in his neck and people around him are smiling as if they’re in on the joke – he enjoys himself more than expected, and is almost sad, when comes 5pm, that it is already over.

As it turns out, the after-party is even wilder than the ride in itself, even if it’s dark and cold already. People dance and scream and laugh and take pictures – then again, he stops counting how many people ask to take a picture with him, and doesn’t fool himself into think it’s because his Peter Pan briefs are awesome. But oh well.

He’s in the middle of a dance party with Ruby, because why the hell not, when someone taps on his shoulder. Killian turns around to find a pre-teen standing there, his brown eyes wide and laughing, his hair a mess on top of his hair – he recognizes the lad as the one holding the video camera hours before, and wonders if he’s No Pants royalty or something.

“We match!” he tells Killian excitingly, and turns around while pointing at his backside, cladded in black boxer briefs with the words ‘I believe’ written in white letters, with complimentary white Tinker Bell outline. (They just make the weirdest underwear these days.)

It’s so unexpected that Killian can only laugh out loud, and he high-fives the boy before letting him disappear in the crowd once more.

 

…

 

The No Pants Subway Ride makes for great stories to tell his friends and co-workers for a week or two, and Killian promises Ruby they’ll do it again next year, but it soon finds its way at the back of his memory, like things always do. He doesn’t think about it much, only cracking a smile when he sees a weirdo in the subway – _he_ was the weirdo in the subway, after all. Other than that, he goes back to his own life, with his own problems and papers to grade.

It’s a sunny July afternoon when he tumbles out of a meeting at NYU and unto Washington Square Park, the place packed with tourists and street artists. He doesn’t know why it was a good idea to come here at all, especially with how hot it is that day, but he tells himself sitting on a bench and watching people go on with their lives is always better than locking himself in his apartment and binge-watch Breaking Bad until three in the morning.

Not that he has the luxury of finding a place to sit anyway. He stumbles upon an uncanny scene way before an empty bench – as uncanny as anything can be in New York, at least. A group of street dancers performing not five meters away from a saxophonist, with several people talking to each other or on the phone around them – all in perfect silence, as if someone had forgotten to turn on the sound system.

Killian looks around him, confused at first (and, from the look on the faces of other bystanders, he isn’t the only one) before his eyes find a blonde woman. She’s in jeans and a t-shirt, the outfit simple enough for her to blend in, but Killian isn’t fooled – plus, he’d recognize that blonde mane of hair anywhere, beanie or not. Her presence here can’t be sheer coincidence, and so Killian makes his way towards her.

She looks up at him, green eyes curious and vibrant in the summer sun, and he forgets to breath for a second.

“You’re the lass from the No Pants Ride,” he tells her, proud in the evenness of his voice.

“Yeah,” she laughs, the sound breathless almost. “Among other things.”

As she says so, she takes the sunglasses resting on top of her head and pulls them down on her nose – the boombox blasts a rap song, the saxophonist breaks into a song, and a couple screams at each other’s face as if in the middle of an argument. She raises an eyebrow at him and, even if the sunglasses shade her eyes from him, Killian is certain she winks. He laughs.

The noise doesn’t last for more than a minute before she puts the sunglasses up on her head once more – everything is silent again. By now, other people have started to notice something is off, gathering next to the group of dancers and frowning at the scene as if it would help them decipher the mystery in front of them, or simply laughing when it dawns on them that they’re witnessing a joke in progress.

A woman in her forties stops next to them, watching the scenes for a few seconds, before asking what is going on. The image of innocence, the blonde just shrugs and replies, “I don’t know. They just all went silent at the same time.” She sounds so genuine, her voice laced with confusion and curiosity, that it isn’t that hard to believe she has no clue what is going on.

Still, even as she makes small talk with other people, feeding to their questions and theories, she moves her sunglasses up and down every once in a while, effectively silencing her flash mob each time. Killian bites back a laugh and plays along too after a few minutes, pointing to the arguing couple and the Dalmatian that barks on cue and shut up when needed. It’s amazing, really, that flash of amusement in people’s eyes when they understand what is going on, and kids in their late teens taking videos, and just the crowd standing there as quiet as possible not to ruin the moment.

Nobody notices that the pretty blonde next to him is the mastermind behind the whole thing. It lasts about twenty minutes and then she bends down to lace her shoe, and it’s done. The saxophonist packs his instrument, the arguing couple moves on, the guy goes back to walking his dog and the dancers stop the music. Some people applause, too, and it takes only a couple of minutes before everyone go back to their lives.

“Hey, thank you”, pretty blonde tells him, tapping his chest with the back of her hand playfully. “It’s not often that people jump in in the middle of a mission.”

She says ‘mission’ like she’s an agent out of a spy movie – he falls a little bit in love on the spot.

“Aye, that was fun,” he replies, and can only follow by scratching his ear nervously – gorgeous women setting up large-scale pranks are so out of his league it’s not even funny at that point.

“We’re always looking for new people to join in. If you’re interested, of course.” She rummages through her bag to hand him her business card. It reads Improv Everywhere, has a website and official accounts on all the social network platforms; her name is nowhere to be found. “We’re throwing the Black Tie Beach in two weeks. Join us, okay?”

He just nods, eyes still on the card, and so misses the grin she flashes at him. A shame.

“Gotta go celebrate with the others. See you.”

And she’s gone.

 

…

 

He doesn’t binge-watch Breaking Bad that night, but settles for reading the website – more of an elaborate blog, really – and ends clicking on every article to watch the videos, look at the pictures, and read the stories. He also finds out her name is Emma Swan and that she has been doing this for twelve years now. (Twelve years of people riding the subway in their underwear and he never heard of it before. He ought to go out more or something.) And he was right, the kid in Peter Pan boxers _is_ No Pants royalty – her son, actually. Killian watches ‘Agent Swan’ – she’s ‘ _Special_ Agent Swan’ apparently – growing younger as he goes back in time with each page of the blog, and it warms his heart that mother and son have been sharing this for so many years.

(He remembers his own father, giving him the cold shoulder before vanishing into thin air. Whatever this Agent Swan lad has, it’s on the opposite side of the spectrum.)

He follows both the Twitter account and the Facebook page that night, joins the Black Tie Beach event, and makes a mental note of talking about it with Ruby over breakfast.

 

…

 

Killian is grateful for the clouds in the sky and the not-so-hot temperatures that day, because something tells him that spending the day at the beach wearing a tux would have done painful things to his pale Irish complexion. He’s also grateful for Ruby being the queen of thrift shops, his outfit costing less than ten dollars – he couldn’t care less about ruining it in the sea and the sand, which is the point, really.

Emma greets them, standing on a bench, her megaphone in hand. She’s cladded in a red dress, leaving little to the imagination and – scratch that, it’s a very hot summer day here in Coney Island.

He loses her in the crowd as they spread out and make their way towards the beach, and for a while Killian loses himself in finding a good spot and draping his towel on the sand. He isn’t planning to go for a swim, not now at least, and settles for reading at first while Belle and Ruby (whose dress is pretty much inexistent, may he add, but who’s even surprised at that point?) start making sandcastles like the five year-old they most definitely aren’t.

It’s peaceful in a “people keep staring at me like I grew a second head” way – Belle made them sandwiches for lunch, little kids are running around in pretty dresses and oversized suits, and watching grown-up men playing Frisbee while wearing a tux is actually quite entertaining. He couldn’t afford to go back to Ireland this summer, and guesses today is as close to a real summer holiday as he can get while not leaving the city.

He’s well into the book he took with him when the surprise attack happens – and by that he means Ruby grabbing his feet while Belle does the same with his arms. They’re both surprisingly strong and no amount of struggling helps him out, so he all too naturally chokes on salty water when they drop him in the sea and tries to be upset at their loud laughs. It evidently turns into a water fight, which isn’t the best thing to do while wearing a three-piece suit and with two ladies teaming up against him. He almost drowns half a dozen time, clothes clinging to his body and hair stuck to his forehead, before he gives up and leaves the water.

There is sand in his shoes and his breath is ragged, his throat dry with the salt he swallowed, but Killian forgets all about it when he hears, “Hey, I know you!” and turns around to a (somewhat) familiar face.

“Hey, I know you too, Agent Swan!”

The lad got rid of his suit jacket, the sleeves of his shirt rolled up to the elbows, but his cheeks are sun-kissed and his black pants have white smudges of salt on them, and he couldn’t look happier if it were Christmas morning. Killian can only smile at that sight, even more so with the way the lad beams at him.

“I’m Henry, by the way.”

“And I’m Killian.”

The lad grins once more – and just like his mother, it’s infectious, Killian’s cheeks almost hurting with a smile. “What you did with the Mute Button mission was so cool! I mean, people’s reactions are always awesome, but yours was the best. Mom couldn’t even–”

“What did I do this time?”

Killian’s ears turn red, both at the boy’s praises and at the unexpected appearance of his mother. Her red dress features the same smudges of salt Henry’s pants do, and she sports the most glorious beach hair Killian has ever seen – he’s suddenly glad he isn’t wearing a bathing suit.

She blinks up at him before her lips curve up into a smile. “Oh. Hi.”

“Fancy meeting you here, love.”

Her cheekbones are a pretty shade of pink, but it might just be the sun. She offers her son a pointed look then, to which he answers with such a fake innocent smile Killian has to bite on his tongue not to laugh. Especially with that sort of mental discussion they seem to have and that isn’t without reminding him of his childhood with Liam and everything they managed to convey with a nod or a raised eyebrow.

He’s so caught up in the moment that Ruby startles him by linking her arm with him out of nowhere. “Hey, Killy, we’re going to play Frisbee, do you wanna – oh hello, I’m Ruby.”

Never let it be known that Ruby Lucas doesn’t know how to make an entrance.

Still, the first thing he notices is Emma’s smile faltering even so slightly ( _interesting_ ) before she regains her composure and shakes the brunette’s hand. Her eyes travel from Ruby to Killian to their still linked arms, before she tentatively asks, “So are you two…?”

Ruby’s loud laugh is all the answer she needs, and Killian’s pride would be hurt by that knee-jerk reaction were it any other woman – but, well, it’s Ruby so it doesn’t count. “Oh, god _no_ ,” she adds, just to rub salt in the wound, apparently. “We’re just roommates. My girlfriend is over there.” Finger pointed at Belle.

He swears Emma sighs at that new piece of information, smile less forced on her lips, eyes softer. He swallows a smirk and forgets about Ruby’s attempts at crushing his ego because – _damn_.

“Killian? Frisbee?”

“Aye. I’ll come in a tick.”

Ruby nods, a new light sparkling in her eyes – the one that means she’ll hassle him about the pretty blonde later – before leaving them. A few words whispered into Henry’s ear and he’s running off too, leaving them alone and standing awkwardly next to each other. He puts his hands in the back pockets of his pants and she wets her lips with the tip of her tongue and they share a nervous laugh when their eyes meet again.

“I’m glad you came,” she says, her eyes widening like she can’t believe she just said that.

His heart melts.

“Well, a pretty lady asked me so nicely… I couldn’t say no.”

This time, the sun has nothing to do with how red her cheeks and nose are – the blush crawls down her neck and he wonders where it stops, wonders if he’ll ever find out. Which is nonsense, because he doesn’t know her despite his poor and somewhat creepy attempts at Internet stalking, and this puppy love of his is ridiculous beyond reason. Still there is something about her, about the things he reads in her eyes, that draws him to her.

He doesn’t know Emma, but he wants to learn her every quirk and dream, wants to learn everything about her and take everything she’s willing to give.

He’s just so doomed.

“Have you watched the video?”

_I’ve watched them all_. But he knows which one she’s talking about, the only one he’s in. “Aye, I did. I also found my arse in the No Pants one.”

That makes her laugh – such a lovely sound.

He feels bolder, all of a sudden.

“Listen, I know it might sound crazy, and you have every right to say no… But would you like to have a drink once this is over? The lad can come too, I mean…”

“I’d love too.”

It’s so soft, barely more than a whisper, that he almost misses it, stopping in his babbling to stare at him. But her smile is brighter and his heart dances the samba against his ribcage. He grins.

 

…

 

Black Tie Beach comes to a natural end around six and Emma leaves Henry into the hands of her friends – a lovely couple with a baby – despite Killian telling her that it’s just fine if the lad joins in. This isn’t a date anyway, he tells himself, especially since they end in some touristy bar, too loud and too crowded with kids screaming everywhere after a day swallowing sand and sea water, the parents staring at them with tired eyes.

Oh so romantic.

Not that it matters much. He’s too engrossed in anything Emma has to say to really care about the setting, hanging to her every word and smile like one would to dear old life. He tells her about him too, which part of Ireland he’s from, that he came to the States after high school and now is a geography teacher at NYU; she tells him about her company, and how some jokes between friends turned into a business that now takes all her time and energy. She’s not from New York either, but she doesn’t say more on the subject and Killian knows not to push. But mostly she talks about her son, eyes brightening up at a simple mention of his name. He loves video games and fairy tales and museums, but mostly he loves that little girl next door called Grace, even if he pretends not to, and wants to take over what is now ‘the family business’ once Emma is too old to go on.

Killian isn’t sure if he’s falling in love with her or with her family at that point – it’s just a blurry mess of emotions and smiles and _Emma_.

They take the subway back to Manhattan together and, even if he’s supposed to get off before she does, he still insists on accompanying her all the way _just in case_.

He doesn’t kiss her goodnight – not for a lack of wanting – but her smile is all he needs to feel warm and fuzzy inside. It’s like high school and stupid crushes all over again, yet he doesn’t mind all that much.

 

…

 

He wakes up the following morning to a new friend request on Facebook.

He all too eagerly accepts.

 

…

 

Ruby and he meet with the Locksleys for their monthly brunch, only to find Roland excited and unable to stop moving from more than five seconds – even more so than his usual self. He speaks so quickly that Killian only understands one word out of twenty.

“You’ll never guess what happened to us at the mini-golf yesterday.”

Killian has an idea.

Ruby coughs something that sounds a lot like ‘Killian’s girlfriend’.

(He’ll note that Emma _isn’t_ his girlfriend. They had a few more drinks after that first one, during events that may or may not be considered as date. But they haven’t kissed – yet – let alone discuss anything having to do with relationships.)

Ruby’s explanations leave Robin confused, and Killian blushing until the end of their brunch.

 

…

 

It’s well into September when she invites him to her apartment for the first time. The lad is at school and Killian isn’t – no classes on Friday, a dream come true at last – so buying a drink in an expensive coffee shop around the corner seems like such a waste of money. At least that’s what Emma says, and Killian does his best not to read too much in it. (It’s just coffee, they’ve done that two dozen times already, it doesn’t mean anything.)

He also does his best not to stare at the room around him, and fails miserably – her apartment looks like that retailer shop where Belle buys all her clothes (and so Ruby follows, and so Killian is dragged too to carry the bags and look like a moron next to the dressing rooms). There are plants everywhere, and beautiful posters on the walls, as well as a huge TV and video game consoles in a corner. It’s the perfect mix of Emma and Henry and sophisticated tastes – he loves it.

Unsurprisingly, coffee turns into hot cocoa, and they have small talk around the kitchen island, mugs warm between their hands. He tells her about his week – uneventful at best, his students are so boring this year he wants to shake them for his lectures to be livelier. But mostly he’s interested in _her_ and the stories she has to offer. He’s certain he’ll never grow tired of it. She has this way about her, turning trivial stories into epic tales, and he hangs on to her every word like a dying man to water.

“I mean, yeah, YouTube alone pays the bills. That’s always nice.” She says so with a small shrug, never one to find smugness or even pride in her accomplishments. “I also get partnership requests from some brands, or for product placement. And sometimes I’m invited to speak to small conferences, here and here.”

(‘Small conferences’. She means TED Talk. The woman did a freaking TED Talk and acts like it’s no big deal at all, because she isn’t one to brag. Killian’s mind is definitely blown.)

“All in all, I think I’m doing all right.”

“ _All right_?” he can’t help but laugh. “I’m a man in his thirties and I still have a roommate. Trust me, love, you’re doing more than _all right_.”

Her cheeks turn a delightful shade of pink as she looks away, hiding a smile with a sip of her hot chocolate – he has to bite on his bottom lip at that sight because, damn, the things she does to him without even meaning to.

“What about you?” she asks after a while, her skin back to its milky complexion. “Why geography of all things?”

To this, Killian can only reply with a groan, five seconds away from hitting his head against the cold granite of her kitchen island. It’s a question that’s been following him for years now – Robin never hid how funny he thought his major to be, teasing him about the only job he could get with such a diploma. Teacher it ought to be, and teacher it is now.

“Would you believe me if I say I wanted to become Indiana Jones?”

Her eyes widen. “He’s an archaeologist.”

“Tell that to my eighteen year old self.”

She opens and closes her mouth like a fish out of the water – he knows the feeling, all right, he knows he’s a moron – before bursting into laugher. She even has to put her mug on the counter not to spill it, tears prickling at the corners of her eyes as she doubles over. He fights against taking offence in her reaction – she’s mocking him so openly, after all – and settles for a smile instead.

He’s so whipped.

Emma is barely starting to calm down, a single tear running down her cheek that she’s quick to brush away, when the door slamming into its frame and startles them both. They glance at the clock before coming to the same conclusion.

“I’m home!” comes Henry’s voice from the corridor.

Emma straightens her back and smooths her sweater on her stomach before turning to her son. “Hey kiddo. How was the museum?”

“Awesome!” He drops his backpack on the floor and throws his jacket on the back of a chair, offering Killian a grin that’s the right side of _wicked_. “I need to show you something.”

He says that to Emma, but all the while staring at Killian – he can only swallow at the glim of mischief in the boy’s eyes, already dreading the worst for some reason. Not that it matters much to Henry, already rummaging through his backpack like there is no tomorrow. (Emma rolls her eyes behind his back, and Killian wonders if all children act that way.) A victorious laugh escapes his lips when he finds what he was looking for, the museum’s map apparently.

“So there was this exposition about pirates, you see, and…”

And he doesn’t finish his sentence, only opening the map for his mother to see. From where he stands, Killian notices small thumbnails are printed next to each room, to show where is what, and so he guesses Henry is pointing one of those to his mother, grin even bigger on his lips now.

Emma’s eyebrows shoot up, blinking at the map for a second or two, before she looks up to Killian.

Her smile matches her son’s in wickedness.

He’s so doomed.

 

…

 

Killian isn’t certain who that Edward Thatch was, but he sure as hell hates the bloke with a burning passion now.

(He also hates his colleagues. Between the history and the arts departments, not a single one of them ever told him, and there’s no way none of them _knew_.)

Emma decides to go check it by herself the following day, and of course Killian follows, so they find themselves visiting the museum along with the packed Saturday crowd. But Emma is a woman on a mission, going from point A (entry hall) to point B (room 305) as fast as possible, and Killian all but breaks into a run not to lose her between a group of screaming children and two art students.

He catches up with her when they reach the room they were looking for. The painting is there ( _of course it is_ ) and, for a few minutes, they can only stand in front of it, staring. Emma even folds her arms on her chest and tilts her head to the side, deep in her thoughts.

“That’s – that’s almost scary.”

It may be an understatement, but he agrees with the feeling. Because that painting, that pirate on the deck of his ship, sword in a hand and ready for battle… That’s basically him. From the blue eyes and the stumble, down to the chest chair. It’s all too scarily accurate.

“I knew I had ancestors in the Navy but…”

“This one obviously didn’t like the Navy all that much.”

She’s back to the mocking now, and he playfully nudges her shoulder with his to make her stop. Of course, it has quite the opposite effect, and she has to swallow down a laugh for the guards not to kick them out.

The painting creeps him out, quite honestly. He’d always been amused by Hollywood reusing the same actors to play their family members – nothing beats Michael J. Fox playing his own daughter, after all – but it’s an entire different thing for it to happen to you. In real life.

He must be dreaming.

“So you’ll do it?” she asks, voice tentative and sheepish, like she can believe she’s asking this of him.

“Aye.” (As if he could ever tell her no.) “I’ll do it.”

 

…

 

It takes a week for them to put the outfit together.

It takes Emma five seconds to tease him about stage fright.

He knows it to be ridiculous – he gives lectures and conferences in front of large lectures hall, after all, it’s his _bloody job_ – but he wants to do good by her, wants to impress her somehow. So, aye, he has stage fright, and does his best to ignore the butterflies in his stomach as they enter the museum the next Saturday, pirate garb hidden beneath his trench coat not to alarm the security team of the place.

One of her friends, the petite woman with cropped black hair he’d seen on the beach weeks ago, follows them camera in hand, pretending to be nothing more than a tourist – and god knows how many more of them there are around him, in on the ‘mission’.

The lad is trotting ahead of them, seemingly interested in the paintings, and that more than everything else makes Killian nervous – the fact that mother and son will watch him perform, that he has the potential of disappointing them both today if he screws up.

God, he doesn’t want to screw up.

Eyes fall on him the moment he shrugs off his coat and gives it to her – she tucks it in the crook of her elbow with a nod and a smile. All the leather draws attention, of course, which is the point, but Killian fights back a blush anyway – a public speaker he may be, but an actor he is not, and dealing with that kind of crowd is new and frightening, even to the king of smugness and self-confidence.

“All right, ladies and gentlemen,” Emma starts, her voice soft and gentle as to not attract the attention of the security team, “we’re going to be having an autograph signing with the dreadful pirate Jones today. The captain has travelled all the way from the Caribbean Sea on this special occasion. Autographs are totally free, anybody would like one?”

They’ve gathered a crowd by now, some twenty visitors looking curiously at him as Killian stands proudly next to his painting, raising an eyebrow at whoever looks at him in the eyes for too long, so it doesn’t come as a surprise when people actually play along and ask for a signed copy of the painting. He writes ‘Captain Jones’ in his neatest calligraphy, and agrees to take some pictures, while Emma goes on about the story behind the piece of art (and boy, did she do her homework, knowing everything about everything).

But mostly, she glances at him once in a while, when she’s not talking with a stranger, and sends him little smile that do nothing to calm the butterflies in his stomach. He has to mentally kick himself in the shin more than once, not to break out of character because of the softness in her eyes and the gentle curve of her lips – it does things to him all right, things he shouldn’t think about in a museum of all places.

(He doesn’t want to assume, to hope, but sometimes she does things like this that have his skin humming and his fingers tickling to touch her, and he’s doomed. He’s so doomed.)

There is no surprise, a good ten minutes after they arrive, in a security guard coming near them and asking if they have an official authorization for whatever they are doing. They don’t, of course, and Emma bullshits her way out of the situation with a smile and a kind apology.

They’re still kicked out of the museum, though.

Not that it matters much – Emma has enough footage and pictures for a video, and Henry talks animatedly of people’s reactions. Still, it feels a bit awkward, standing in the middle of the street dressed like a pirate, but he soon forgets about it when she throws him her most beautiful smile. Her other friends soon leave with goodbyes, and Emma stares at Henry for long seconds before giving him a twenty and pointing to the closest shop, telling him he can buy some sweets as a reward for his good job today. She doesn’t have to ask twice, the lad making a beeline for the shop before she even finishes her sentence. She rolls her eyes.

They’re alone on the pavement and Killian tries his best not to think too much of it when she turns back to him once more. But her eyes holds the same softness, and his heart, that damn traitor, beats faster at the sight of her, all bright smiles and flushed cheeks – she’s so beautiful and perfect, sometimes he wonders if she’s real or just a figment of his imagination.

“Thank you, Killian,” she says, voice just as gentle as her green eyes.

He’s drawn to her, taking a step closer and biting down on his lip to repress a grin. “Perhaps gratitude is in order, Swan.”

“Yeah, that’s what the ‘thank you’ was for.”

He barely notices the way he’s toying with the hem of her shirt, but is acutely aware of her taking yet another step forwards, chest almost brushing with every breath they take. She’s so close he could count the freckles on her nose, the warmth of her bringing a shiver down his spine. Her wants to say something, tease her some more maybe.

She doesn’t let him.

Grabs his black shirt by the lapel and pulls him to her in a kiss that can only be described as hungry – bruising and heated and passionate, the way first kisses never are. A growl gets stuck at the back of his throat as his wraps his arms around her, bodies flushed against the other, and runs his fingers through her hair. It’s everything he’s ever imagine and some more, losing himself in the kiss until he has to draw back, out of breath and dizzy.

Her lips are red and swollen, her cheeks flushed and her eyes bright, and it’s the most glorious she’s ever been – the perfect mix between wrecked and aroused, and no doubt his own face mirror the exact same feeling.

“That was…” he begins, nose rubbing against hers, ready to kiss her once more.

She doesn’t finish the sentence the way he’d hope, pushes him away with a hand to his chest. “A mistake.”

His eyes widen, body going numb, and he finds himself mouthing a ‘what?’ that remains unanswered. Because the loving expression is gone from her eyes, leaving place to confusion and turmoil as she shakes her head and pushing him farther away. She doesn’t offer further explanation, doesn’t say anything at all – just shakes her head and takes a few steps back, before turning around altogether.

She grabs Henry’s hand when he comes out of the shop, ignores his protests and the way he looks at Killian as she pulls him towards the closest subway entrance.

She doesn’t look back.

 

…

 

(His students find out about the video only two days after it is published. But their teasing doesn’t matter when Emma hasn’t answered his calls for a week. So he forces a smile on his lips and moves on with his lecture.)

 

…

 

Saying he’s miserable may be a bit of an understatement.

Killian doesn’t dare going near her apartment, least she sees him and gets pissed, and stops texting her after yet another week of that silence treatment. But damn if he wants to hear from her – even if it’s to understand what he did wrong, so he can apologize.

She was the only who kissed him, and he was damn sure everything that led to this moment was flirting. Was he wrong? Blind? Did his feelings for her alter his judgment?

No, that can’t be right. He can’t have imagined the smiles and the soft looks and the breathless laughs. It can’t be just a dream, nothing more than a fantasy his brain came up with. It was there all right, the teasing and the gentleness and even the hunger sometimes.

So he does his best not to contact Emma, to leave her the space she needs.

And it makes him miserable.

He can’t even stalk her on the Internet (even if it’s just to make sure she’s okay) for she stopped being active on her social media accounts altogether. No more tweet, no more Facebook update – not on her personal accounts at least, the Improv Everywhere being as active as ever. It’s actually the only way he knows she wasn’t abducted by aliens or something – she keeps posting, because it’s her job.

Days turn into weeks, weeks into a month. Videos keep coming, and he notices that her smiles no longer reach her eyes, faked and force when she’s on camera. Killian wonders if other people notice too – none of the comments point to such a conclusion. Perhaps it’s just him, perhaps he’s the only one to notice. To care.

She’s pretty damn miserable too, and he doesn’t understand.

 

…

 

Days come and go, and soon he finds himself staring at a Facebook notification, sent by Ruby – 2015 No Pants Subway Ride.

It’s been a year, he thinks dryly, a year since she barged in his life and turned it upside down. He doesn’t know how to feel about this – empty, mostly, and no amount of Ruby dragging him to this bar or that party changes it. He can’t just go out and have a life when he could do so much more with Emma by his side, when he could share coffee dates with her and learn to know her son.

She made a rightful wreck of him.

So he refuses Ruby’s invitation and let her go with Belle instead this time. He spends the day between grading papers and watching crappy programs on TV, refusing to think about what is going on in the subway right now, least he loses his mind over it. He should be there, because she will be, and maybe it’s the only way to see her – but he doesn’t want to ruin her day, her fun, so he stares at the screen as MTV broadcasts episodes of a stupid show he couldn’t care less about.

This is his life now, alone and desperate and watching MTV.

What a lucky bloke.

He has half a mind to skip diner and call it a day, because today is the kind of day he wants to put behind him as soon as possible, when he’s startled out of his thoughts by a knock on a door. Killian rolls his eyes – trust Ruby to forget her keys, as always – as he stands up from his place on the couch and walks towards the door.

He freezes when he opens it.

It’s her – of course _it’s her_ , as if his life has suddenly turned into a bad movie or something – with a beanie on her head and wet strands of hair on her forehead and cheeks. She opens her mouth when their eyes meet but no sound comes out of it, so they just stare at each other in silence – long enough for him to notice the purple bags under her eyes, and how exhausted she is, eyes lost and bottom lip trembling. He wants to pull her to him and kiss her better, wants to hug her until she stops frowning and smiles at him instead. He almost does just that, reaching for her, until he remembers how they parted ways.

She notices too, the way his hand rises only to fall back at his side, and she nibbles on her bottom, not quite able to look at him in the eyes.

“What are you doing here?” he asks when the silence becomes unbearable.

“You didn’t come.”

“Emma, you shouldn’t…”

Maybe interrupting people is a habit of hers. Not that he minds, really, not after so many months with seeing her – lips as soft as he remembers, body as warmth, breath itching the exact same way when he runs a hand through her hair and pulls her to him to deepen the kiss.

He’s mad at her – god, he’s so upset – but it doesn’t matter much when her nails scratch the nape of his neck, teeth biting down on his bottom lip. It doesn’t matter as her other hand goes straight to his belt, little moan escaping her with each brush of his tongue against hers, with the way he tightens his hold on her hips so she doesn’t run away.

They stumble their way to the bedroom, leaving a trail of discarded clothes behind them, until she falls on his bed – hair a golden halo around he head, eyes hooded and blackened with lust.

_She left_ , the rational part of him whispers to his ear. _Who’s to say she won’t do it again_?

But his heart replies _she came back_.

He’s never been a rational man, anyway.

 

…

 

He wakes up to the sun on his face and her soft snores in his ear, an arm around his torso, nose pressed to his neck – it tastes like heaven. Even more so when her eyes flutter open and she offers him a small yawn worthy of a kitten, before snuggling closer into his embrace. Killian doesn’t want to move, least he breaks that precious moment of peace, yet he pulls her closer to him in an almost protective manner, and kisses her temple as he mumbles something that may or may not sound like ‘morning’.

She tenses, if only for a second, before she relaxes into his arms, foot stroking his calf. He could get used to it, all too easily, but knows better than to let himself the chance. So he only indulges himself in a kiss on her shoulder, skin soft and sweet against his lips.

“We need to talk,” she whispers, her voice heavy with sleep.

It is his time to pause, for the briefest of times, before he sighs. “Do we, now?”

She nods with a little ‘hmm hmm’ before she shifts in his arms until hers are folded on his chest, chin resting on top of them. It is good, he thinks, her body language nothing like what is to be expected of A Talk. Not all hope is lost.

“You deserve an explanation,” she goes on, frown etching her brows as she purposefully doesn’t meet his eyes. “Probably a long one.”

He raises a hand, knuckles brushing against the apple of her cheek. “You don’t need to.”

“Yes, I do.” She closes her eyes, braces herself with a sigh. “I was eighteen when I got pregnant with Henry. The father, he – well, let’s say he didn’t take it well. He blamed me for it, of course, said I’d done it on purpose, called me all the names in the book. Never saw his face again after that.”

He tries his best not to shudder in disgust, but his brain is suddenly filled with a younger version of her, wide-eyed and heartbroken, and he can only bite down on his lip not to let a curse escape. She nods in reply, as if agreeing to the sentiment.

“I’d just gotten out of the system, I literally had nowhere to go. I was a mess, seriously, I was a wreck. So one night, my friends decided to go out. Nothing fancy, just a night at the bar to get my mind off things for a few hours. I’m not exactly sure whose idea it was but – well, David arrived late, and he simply jumped into things. Pretended I was some actress he’d just recognized, playing the fan and everything. He even asked me to sign something. It was so unexpected and people, they just believed him somehow. It’s New York, after all, there are celebrities everywhere. So they started asking me to sign things too, and to take pictures and – it got so big so fast, you know…”

She shakes her head, ghost of a smile on her lips, and Killian knows she’s no longer here, traveling back in time. Another brush of his knuckle to her face brings her back to reality, and Emma smiles at him, red blossoming on her cheeks.

“I laughed so much that night and – and somehow, I knew it would be alright. It got me thinking too, because if David could pull that out in a few minutes, what would happen if we really put our minds to it? And that’s when I decided, I wanted my child to grow in a world where his mother makes people happy.” She stops for a moment, pout on her lips as she ponders on her next words. “It was small at first, just a few pranks here and there. And then YouTube became a thing and so did we. Social networks helped too, and the rest is history, as they say.”

He thinks she will stop here – even if it doesn’t answer all his questions, her story allows him to connect a fair number of dots already, and maybe it is enough. Maybe it is all he needs, all she can offer. But she heaves a sigh and nibbles on her lip before she meets his eyes, and Killian knows it was but the beginning, knows it was the easy part. Her eyes shine in the dull morning sun, unshed tears he doesn’t want to fall – not for him, of all people.

“My life, my entire career in the last decade, has been built around making people happy. I – that’s what I do, literally. It’s a one-way system, though, I never expect anything in return and – what I mean to say is –” She struggles with the words, closes her eyes as to chastise herself. “Beside Henry, nobody makes me happy in return. And I love making people happy, I really do, and it makes me happy, but it’s only second-handed happiness. What I mean is, I’ve lived by proxy for so long, I don’t know how to handle the real thing. So that and Henry’s father, and I…”

“Panicked,” he offers.

“Yeah. Definitely panicked.”

There still is fear in her eyes, fear she barely manages to cover. She’s a wonder, his Swan, so strong and proud and beautiful – so good at hiding the scars the past left in her heart, so gifted in the art of hiding her vulnerabilities. But it comes back now, crashing in waves around them, and he can only love her more for it, can only be fascinated by this marvel of a woman who dared open her life and heart to him.

He shifts in the bed then, arms wrapped around her waist as he pulls her to him until she’s on top of him, thighs straddling his hips. The blood inside him turns to fire the longer he looks at her, heart racing as his desire for her runs south. He leans forwards to capture her lips in a hungry kiss, one she too happily returns – it tastes like desperation, almost, and if she clings to him a little too tightly, nails digging into his shoulders, he doesn’t comment.

“So you’re not mad?”

Her voice is hesitant, yet he can’t help the bark of laugh that escapes his lips, nor the way he shakes his head with a roll of the eyes. He kisses her soundly, for good measure. “’Course not, love. I wished you’d told me sooner instead of vanishing but…” He smiles at her, a crooked grin that has her smile in return. “We’ll work on it, all right? We’ll work on your happy ending.”

She nods, she nods and she laughs, and he can only kiss her again.

 

…

 

Agent Jones becomes a constant on her website and in her videos. He isn’t always there, because he still needs to take care of his own job, but it is enough for his students to notice – they take it better than expected, and even ask him for details once his lectures are over (where they never asked questions about the class before, bloody typical). Questions he’s eager to answer, of course – it is no surprise when he seems one of them pop up at some random gathering, but he just rolls with it.

Emma’s smile grows softer, fonder over time – Henry’s too, and it’s all Killian needs, just the knowledge that the both of them are happy, wrapped in their little bubble of mindless pranks and funny videos, with hot chocolates and long subway journeys, camera in hand.

She’s happy, and it is all that matters.

 

…

 

He finds himself at the Public Library once, with a vacuum on his back and beige overalls, running after guys with a white sheet over their head, and the only thing he can think is, “ _Best. Girlfriend. Ever_.”


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I think that journalist has a crush on me.”  
> “Which one?” Elsa asks without looking up from her phone, no doubt texting Anna. “I worry for the journalist who doesn’t have a crush on you.”

She doesn't notice it at first.

She notices _him_ , of course, because – well, because it's impossible not to, with his baby blue eyes and nervous grins and the way he always asks questions she wants to be asked. Not that the other journalists don't do their job, mind you, but he always manages to ask questions she hasn't already heard a hundred times that day, and she likes him all the more for it.

It, after all, makes her job a little less boring.

He’s from some obscure Irish magazine, even if his accent is smooth around the edges, proof that he has been working in the USA for a while now. She doesn’t exactly knows what the magazine is about, but knows better than to ask – she was, after all, interviewed by _Horse & Hound_ once for a drama piece she did. (It was by far the most embarrassing moment of her career in how obvious she was in her lack of knowledge in everything horses.)

She notices him the way she does other journalists in her little circle of sci-fi slash fantasy slash nerd community, because they are always the ones sent to conventions and red carpets. They know their stuff, and it makes for less awkward interviews. Nothing more terrible than having to explain a greying dude on a talk show what _shipping_ is. So, yeah, Killian Jones is a fixture in her life as an actress, the way Josh Horowitz or Chris Hardwick are.

She notices _it_ at San Diego Comic Con.

It is, as always, the best kind of nightmare, in that she gets very little sleep, her high heels are killing her, and she powers up on coffee and adrenaline. She saw Ruby pouring a can of Red Bull in her own caffeinate drink not half an hour ago, it’s that kind of day. Their panel is of course a success – sixth season and the ratings are still awesome, so Ballroom 20 is packed – and Emma barely gets time to breath and swallow down a sandwich before she’s thrown to the wolves in an interminable ballet of pictures and interviews.

She is used to it, of course, has been doing interviews ever since she was sixteen and featuring on Ingrid Arendelle’s break-through movie. It doesn’t make the flashes of camera in her eyes any more comfortable, or the questions about her character’s newfound love life any easier. She puts her best professional grin on her lips as she answers, for what is the hundredth time, that she indeed is excited at the idea of finally getting some on screen and that she couldn’t be more thrilled to work with her fellow male lead.

Emma is bracing herself for yet another interview, letting Abigail guide her to the next journalist, when she catches a flash of blue eyes and black hair.

She can’t help the expression of delight settling over her features. Especially when it matches his own grin, a little excited and a little shy. She doesn’t beam as she moves closer to him, because she’s a professional, thank you very much. (It’s a close thing.)

“Hey! Long time not seen!”

It may be a trick of the light, but she swears the tip of his ears is a little pink when he grins back and says, “Hello to you too, and welcome to the Rolly Joger!”

She smiles, tries not to beam against. Mostly fails.

“Now, we learnt from this season’s cliff-hanger that you character was the lost princess all along. What can we expect from it next season?”

See? No question about romance – straight to the point of her character’s other, more interesting plot. Emma loves those kinds of interviews, where she can gush about the psychology behind Leia’s life and choices, as well as talk about her hopes and dreams for the future of the show.

“We can expect a lot of things, that’s for sure,” she laughs, and he chuckles along with her. “I mean, I’ve always known Leia was meant to be the Pauper to her sister’s Princess, so it was only a matter of _when_ it would happen. I love how natural it was, to go from point A to point B, and I can’t wait to deal with the aftermaths of this discovery.”

“Especially since Elsa Arendelle was casted as your sister?”

“Yeah, exactly.” Her eyes travel to the side, and she spots the silver of Elsa’s hair in a sea of journalists. “Elsa and I have known each other since we were teenagers, so it’s really exciting to finally be able to work with her. She’s a great addition to our cast, and I can’t wait for all my scenes with her.”

Killian nods along to her answer, an easy smile on his lips. He waits a beat at the end of her sentence, just to make sure she is done, before he goes on. “Identity is an important theme on the show. How did you prepare for–”

“Don’t forget to tell him about him,” comes from behind her as strong arms wrap around her waist.

Emma huffs and puffs, pushing Graham away with a hand on his cheek. She loves him, she really does, but she will punch him in the face if he dares teasing her once more about the budding romance between their characters. Even more so now that Killian’s smile falters for a moment, his eyes taking in their position and the ease with which they interact. It annoys her, too, even if she can’t explain why.

“Geez, Humbert, nobody cares about your dumb knight.”

Graham laughs and wrinkles his nose at her – that move the exact reason why he’s a fan favourite on the show – before moving on to another interview of his own. Emma huffs once more and rolls her eyes, out of principle, before she focuses back on Killian in front of her.

“Sorry ‘bout that. He’s an attention whore. What were you saying?”

He shakes his head a little, as to gather his thoughts. His smile doesn’t seem as natural as it was a minute ago, his eyes not as happy. Still, he goes on like nothing happened. “Yes, about identity…”

 

…

 

“I think that journalist has a crush on me.”

“Which one?” Elsa asks without looking up from her phone, no doubt texting Anna. “I worry for the journalist who _doesn’t_ have a crush on you.”

Emma scoffs a little as she turns on her laptop. It is way past Henry’s bedtime on the East coast, but she knows he will be up to Skype with her anyway. “The Irish one.”

“Ah,” Elsa replies knowingly. “ _Killian_.”

Emma looks up from her laptop and gapes at Elsa for a second. She wants to ask, but finds that it’s stupid because _I don’t mention him that often_ may or may not be a lie. She follows him back on Twitter. She reads his articles even (and especially) when they’re not about her or her show. She definitely has a problem.

“Do _you_ have a crush on _him_?” Elsa goes on teasingly, sounding very much like her little sister in that moment.

(Anna’s voice taunts her in her head.)

( _Emma and Killian, sitting in a tree_ …)

“Of course, I don’t,” she brushes her best friend off as she opens Skype.

It doesn’t sound like a lie, but it doesn’t exactly sound like a truth either.

 

…

 

He’s nowhere to be seen at New York Comic Con.

Emma pretends she isn’t disappointed.

It’s not like she expected him to be at each and every convention she attends for the rest of their lives because, let’s be honest, it was already something akin to a small miracle that they kept bumping into each other for four years in a row. It’s just that she had gotten used to him, and Emma is a creature of habits.

(At least, that’s the official version.)

She doesn’t get interviewed by anyone from the Rolly Joger, actually, so she brushes it off as the magazine no longer being interested in her show. Which, okay, even if it doesn’t make sense. They’re doing great, the ratings are doing great, everything is great. Whatever. Some random Irish magazine doesn’t define her show’s value, or her own. She’s not upset.

(Elsa keeps giving her those looks, like she _knows_ , and it only makes matter worse.)

(“You could message him,” she says, but it’s the most preposterous thing Emma has ever heard in her life.)

(And it’s not like she is scared, or anything. Her last relationship was with Neal, and look what happened. She feels like she’s in the right not to seek a relationship now, especially not with some nerdy journalist who gets maybe-perhaps-kind-of-jealous over her co-star for hugging her during an interview.)

(She isn’t scared. She’s careful.)

 

…

 

She doesn’t run into him as much as –

She definitely runs into him.

She doesn’t mean to, of course, but a teenage girl stops her between two shops in JFK’s terminal, so she takes a picture with her and then signs her phone case. Emma is saying goodbye with a little hand wave when she turns around to go to the airport’s lounge, and that’s when it happens. She smacks right into someone’s chest, strong hands grabbing her by the elbows so she doesn’t lose her balance and completely make a fool of herself in the middle of the airport.

When she looks up, it’s to blue eyes and a knowing smile, and her heart does a weird flip-flop thing.

It’s embarrassing.

“Long time not seen,” he tells her with something akin to a smirk, his voice hoarse from using it too much. He definitely was at the convention, and she fails not to be disappointed by the fact she didn’t see him there.

“Indeed,” she replies, not knowing what to add.

What is there to add?

“I – my boss assigned me to Heroes & Villains. Said it was more interesting to our audience.” Is he explaining himself? Gosh, he definitely is. “I had to interview the Mills sisters. It was – something.”

Emma can only laugh at that. She knows of the Mills sisters’ reputation, and wouldn’t want to be near their vicinity when cameras are involved – a battle of mean remarks and oversized egos, both women fighting for the spotlight. Emma has never understood that visceral need to be seen and heard, but to each their own, probably.

“You don’t have to apologize to me for doing your job,” she tells him as she kneels to pick her carry-on bag.

“No, but I missed you.”

Emma almost gets whiplash from looking up at him too fast. His cheeks are a nice shade of crimson and he bites down on his lip nervously, but he looks sincere too. One part of her brain screams to her, _no, you can’t do this, go away_. The other part of her brain – well, it just stops working.

“I’m sorry. It was too forward,” he goes on when she says nothing.

“No! No – I mean. I didn’t – I don’t.” Well done, Emma. “I’m not – ready, I guess. For a relationship. Of any kind.”

She winces at how lame she sounds all of a sudden, so unlike her composed (“ _prickly_!”) self. He brings the worst in her, or perhaps the best, and that more than anything lightens up all the emergency signals in her mind. She can’t allow herself the weakness of falling into his orbit, least she gets attached. She can’t get attached to a journalist, to anyone, with the life she lives. She can’t get attached and then ruin everything a few weeks, months later.

It’s not worth the headache.

“It’s okay,” he accepts simply, and smiles. “I guess I’ll see you at Wondercon?”

“But it’s in March.”

(She can’t get attached. Doesn’t mean she won’t.)

Killian smiles some more, before looking around them, as if making sure nobody’s watching, no phone is pointed their way. He may be satisfied with what he sees, for he takes a step forwards then, if only to tuck a strand of blond hair behind her ear, head slightly tilted to the side. He looks at her like she’s something precious, and she can only blink at him as her breath catches in her throat.

He’s too much.

“I’ve always been a patient man.”

He’s way too much.

 

…

 

When he shakes her hand at the beginning of their interview at Wondercon, it’s to press a piece of paper to her palm. His number is scribbled on it. Nerd.

(She calls him.)

(Of course she does.)


	9. Chapter 9

“Come on, Killian. It will be fun.”

She might not be three sheets to the wind yet, but – at least one sheet, perhaps two. There is red high on her cheekbones, eyes so green and sparkling it could take his breath away (it did), and she laughs a little too easily not to be on her way to tipsy. A drunk Emma Swan is a sight to behold, especially when she pouts at him, bottom lip out and sad eyes, as she tugs on his arm like an excited puppy.

He’d told Ruby and Belle an open bar wouldn’t be that great an idea for their wedding, but when is anyone ever listening to him anyway?

(He’s two sheets to the wind, too, at the very least.)

He follows her, eventually, because when does he never? And she all too happily drags him across the dance floor, bumping into dancers without even bothering to throw an apology over her shoulder – a woman on a mission, stubborn and determined, until she leads them to their destination. Mainly, the photobooth in a corner, surprisingly empty despite its popularity with all the guests. Killian had managed to avoid it all evening long, but it was without taking drunk Emma into account of course. Drunk Emma allows herself to like silly things for the sake of liking silly things, where sober Emma would just pretend she doesn’t care even if she does.

She bypasses the accessories, for while Killian is grateful.

She doesn’t bypass sitting on his lap, for which…

Killian shifts his hips ever so slightly. It’s embarrassing, the effect that woman has on him, how a simple brush of her hand against his arm can set his whole body on fire, how a smile of hers is enough to have him grin like a fool the entire day. Her hold of him is too powerful and he hopes, for both their sakes, that she will never fully understands it. He’s too far deep already.

“Come on”, she says, and pokes his cheek. “Look cute.”

He smirks. “I never look cute, Swan. Ravishing, perhaps…”

She huffs and puffs and doesn’t blow the house in. Not yet. But she does look cute herself, especially when she leans closer, hand on his shoulder, and steals his breath away. “Charming?”

“Are you comparing me to David?”

Her eyes widen comically at the mention of her brother, before she makes a little face – crunched-up nose and all – and rolls her eyes. Perhaps it is tickling the dragon that to compare himself to Dave, but he does like to ruffle her feathers a little (scales? the metaphor is lost on him). Still, it doesn’t annoy her into forgetting about the pictures, for she wriggles in his lap to find a more comfortable position, gods help him, and throws an arm around his shoulders. She’s too close for his own good, smelling of Ruth’s deep perfume after hugging her all day long, but also of cake and champagne. He did see her negotiating with the cook to get two more slices of this chocolate wonder, the little pirate.

She pushes the button, flash blinding him before he blinks away the white spots in front of his eyes and sends her an affronted look. Emma only replies with an innocent smile and another push of the button, and he can only grin at that. She’s a child at heart, no matter how hard she hides it, and he loves those moments when the mask falls down and only remains Emma – carefree, smiling and laughing, beautiful. He loves every part of her, but this is the one he could die for, probably.

And then she grins, bottom lip tugged between her teeth, and it’s hard not to bite down on it, not to kiss her on the spot. She is drunk and so is he, he reminds himself as she leans into him, takes another picture. Her breath ghosts over his mouth, hot and inviting, before her lips brush his cheek – close enough to the mouth to be an almost-kiss, far enough to leave him craving for more, more, more.

“Let’s dance,” she whispers to his ear, and who is he to deny her?

(“We need to talk about that,” Ruby texts him weeks later, along with a picture. It’s the both of them, of course, red in the face and with too big grins, staring at each other like everything faded into the background, like nothing matters but each other. It is, all things considered, a really great picture, and he mourns not having Ruby’s live reaction when she saw it for the first time.

“We don’t,” he replies, purposefully cryptic.

“WTF Jones????”

“We don’t,” he sends again, and with it a selfie he takes on the spot, Emma’s face pressed to his neck, deep in sleep. Some of her hair is in his mouth. It’s all kinds of perfect.)


	10. little chop shop girl

When she opens her business, Emma calls it ‘Little Chop Shop Girl’ because her sense of humour is nothing short of perfect and Henry has been speaking in an horrendous Russian accent for two months now, so it just makes sense. If you’d told her when she was a teenager working on cars with Kristoff that she would buy and open her own shop, she would have laughed at your face, but here she is now – buying Michael Tillman’s business and becoming Billy’s boss, and dealing with bills and phone calls and taxes. She loves every second of it.

(Okay, she doesn’t love having to scrub her arms clean at the end of the day, but the smell of cleaning solvent isn’t as bad as you’d think.)

She shrugs off the water on her head and shoulders as she enters Granny’s, blond strands of hair clinging to her forehead as she curses Main’s October downpours. Everything smells like rain and pumpkin and hot chocolate, soothing her from the inside out as she grins at Ruby. Her friend nods back and grabs a mug, knowing better than to ask Emma what she wants – her usual has been a usual for a decade and a half, now.

“Hey, kiddo. What’s up?”

She slides in the booth with Henry, eyes all the textbooks spread over the table warily. Henry runs a hand through his hair with a deep sigh, squinting at the piece of paper in front of him – she wonders how long until he has to wear glasses, just like her.

“Mitochondria is the powerhouse of the cell,” he replies, like a man who has seen too much.

Emma chuckles. She understands the feeling. Her son is too much like her; crazy about everything literature, not so much about science. It makes homework-doing difficult, at times, but they make do. They don’t really have the choice.

“We’ll look it up tonight. What about math?”

Ruby comes to hand Emma her hot chocolate, to which she replies with a smile before focusing back on Henry. He’s rummaging through his notes until he shows her an exam paper, beautiful red B+ circled in a corner. She grins around a sip of her beverage. He’ll go far in life, even if she doesn’t know how she’ll pay for his college tuition.

The entrance door’s bell rings with a new patron as she flips through Henry’s exam – it’s all show, she barely remembers her own math classes from years ago. She gives the paper back to Henry before taking another sip of hot chocolate, as he goes back to his biology homework with another sigh.

She thinks she hears her name, somewhere by the other side of the room, and turns her head just in time to heard Ruby, a little louder this time. “Emma, hey!” She waves, too, just in case. “She owns the garage.”

It’s only then that she notices the man standing in front of the counter, now staring at her. He’s a stranger – not hard to know, when she’s lived in Storybrooke all her life – and has obviously been caught under the rain, if the way his wet hair fall in his eyes and his drenched clothes cling to his body are anything to go by. He looks like a pitiful rat. A handsome, pitiful rat, staring right back at her.

Her cheeks flush.

She’s been single for too long.

Emma stands up, because she isn’t a moron and can recognize a I-walk-under-the-rain-for-a-few-miles-send-help when she sees one, and Handsome Rat now has little dollar signs dancing around his face. (Great mental image, Emma…)

“Can I help?” she asks, professional despite her less than orthodox thoughts.

“Aye. Hello.” His fingers flex, like he wants to offer his hand to shake but thinks better of it. “My car broke down at the town line. No idea what happened.”

She nods and grabs her phone in the back pocket of her jeans. Speed dial is the eighth wonder of the modern world, and so is Billy picking up after only a few seconds. ACDC in the background swallows his “Little Chop Shop Girl, how can I help you?” and Emma rolls her eyes playfully. She really hopes there are no customers at the shop right now.

“Hey, I need a tow truck at the town line. Are you busy right now?”

Billy’s sigh is heavy, probably as he stares at the downpour outside. Emma understands the feeling. “I’m working on old Zelena’s car right now. Can do in twenty.”

“Yeah, sure. Thanks!”

She hangs up and glances Henry’s way, still drowning in biology, before she focuses back on the man in front of her. She’s too close not to notice his blue eyes, or the curious gleam in them. She’s been there before – people, especially men, always look surprised or suspicious when the find out she’s a mechanic, like a woman can’t understand how a car works. She’s used to it, and to customers thinking they know better and have the right to speak above her. Shutting them down and doubling the price is always entertaining.

“Your car will be at my shop in half an hour, sir.”

His ears are a little pink – probably with cold, his nose is pink too – as he nods his reply. Ruby is swift to offer him a coffee, and waffles, and maybe even a towel, because Ruby knows her job too, and so knows how to make the most of a clueless stranger – nice tip and all. Emma lets her do, with a smile and one of Ruby’s winks thrown her way, before she goes back to her own booth and to Henry struggling with the universe and then some.

 

…

 

Emma receives a text from Billy that just states ‘holy shit’ with way too many exclamation points, and for a moment she wonders if the stranger lied about it being the car just breaking down. But then the text is followed by a picture and – yeah, _holy shit_.

Also, what is it with dudes and expensive cars?

But, mostly, holy shit.

Emma isn’t that into cars, despite owning a garage and working on cars all day long. She likes what she does, of course, but she doesn’t really care how beautiful or expensive or powerful the car is when she checks the oil and balances the tires. It all started with Ruby and Billy dating, and Emma tagging along at the garage – she started asking Kristoff questions, because she would rather do that than watch a couple sucking faces. So, really, she doesn’t care all that much about cars.

Even so… “You own an Aston Martin?”

The guy’s ears are more than red, and with them his cheeks, neck, entire body. Which, cute. Also unexpected, because if he’s able to afford than kind of things, he should be cocky about it, not flustered. Men don’t make sense.

“Jones,” he finds it in himself to say, even as he scratches his ear. “Killian Jones.”

His smile isn’t smug or anything, though – more on the dorky side, like a kid who’s been vibrating for hours with the need to make a terrible joke. Henry does that sometimes. Not that Emma wants to compare her son to that stranger because – anyway. She smiles, and perhaps even snorts a little, at the reference. It’s cute. He’s cute.

“Emma Swan,” she replies and tugs both hands in the back pockets of her jeans. It’s safer that way, even if it leaves her with not other option but to nod towards the door. “Billy towed your car, we can go now.”

It has (thankfully) stopped raining by now, Maine’s downpours as deadly as they are brief. It makes walking to the garage easier, not to mention quicker – just around the corner, and they arrive at the same time Billy does, Aston Marty towed by the truck and everything. Emma has seen her fair share of beautiful cars, but they’re a sight to behold in Storybrooke, where everyone owns the same family car.

A guy stops to stare.

Emma almost sighs of happiness.

It takes a few more minutes to move the car around and put it inside the garage, and Emma and Billy almost fight each other to the death over who will get to take care of it. She pulls the ‘I’m the boss’ card, which isn’t a very nice card to pull, and Billy half-glares at her before he goes back to old Zelena’s car with a groan. Emma grins, for a second, before she opens the hood to see what’s up. Her grin falters after about five seconds, and she stands straighter to look at Jones, Killian Jones.

“What the fuck?”

Which, all things considered, isn’t a very professional thing to say, but she’s the only mechanic in town and his car is a rightful mess. She’s allowed to be a little rough around the edges, it’s more than deserved at that point. He seems to understand it, too, fidgeting on the spot and refusing to meet his eyes, properly chastened.

“The engine is dead. How did you make it that far without ending in a ditch somewhere?”

A muscle ticks in his jaw. “How long?”

Emma shakes her head with a cackle. “I’ll have to order a new one. A few days, at least.”

And here comes the jaw muscle again as he looks away, swearing between his teeth. Emma wonders how long he went without noticing his car was on the verge of dying because, well, it’s the kind of car you pamper, there is no way you can miss that kind of thing. Even her bug is in a better state, and it was half-dying before she even got it.

“Do you have an hotel somewhere?”

She points to Granny’s.

 

…

 

He shows up at the shop the next morning, when she’s elbow-deep in August’s bike, and it takes all of Emma’s patience not to bark at his face. She remembers that yoga class she and Elsa took a few years ago – deep, slow breaths through the nose, letting the air out through the mouth – before she turns towards him and reminds him, with her best smile, that she knows where he lives and thus will come to warn him when his car is ready. It does the trick, for now, and she doesn’t see him for the rest of the day.

She does see him the following day, when she’s taking her afternoon break to check in on Henry and have her daily hot chocolate. He sits by the counter at Granny’s, nursing what looks like coffee, and perks up at the sight of her. Henry is busy with his history homework, so she allows him a few minutes of concentration and makes her way toward the counter.

“I take it my car isn’t ready yet?”

Emma raises an eyebrow, unimpressed. “Be honest with me for a second. Is this a stolen car? Because I get along well with the sheriff so…”

So one stolen car in Storybrooke is okay. Two is reaching. Not to mention that she would have to report it, and Graham already has enough work with the Miner’s festival as it is. So many drunk guys, so little time.

“This isn’t a stolen car, Swan. It belonged to my brother.”

Emma can’t ignore the use of the past tense, and the implications that come with it. She knows a thing or two about running away, after all – it’s in her blood and on her mind, and she would never judge anyone for doing the exact same thing in times of need. Fresh air and new horizons never killed anyone, unless you have as badly maintained a car as he does.

“Good. Save me the paperwork.”

He grins at her, and Ruby saves Emma from doing the exact same thing. Instead, she grabs the mug of hot chocolate that magically appeared in front of her, and gives him a lazy salute before making her way toward the Swan Booth. When Henry grins, she mirrors it.

 

…

 

He comes back the following day, witty retort dying on her tongue when he hands her a to-go cup from Granny’s as way of greeting. Emma eyes it suspiciously, and grabs it with slow motions; her fingers leave oily smudges on the white cardboard, and she glares down at it like it might explode any second now. Which, she isn’t sure it won’t.

“What’s that?” and she can’t hide the scepticism in her voice. Not that she tries.

“Hot chocolate from Granny’s, of course.”

Of course.

She takes a sip, because it’s close to lunch time and she’s running on an empty stomach – the sugar could help. There is cream too, and cinnamon, but she guesses it’s more about Ruby doing it the way she likes out of habit that about Killian Jones learning her tastes when it comes to hot beverages. At least, she hopes.

“You know bribing me won’t make the engine come any faster right?”

A half-smile tugs the corner of his mouth, like she is somewhat amusing to him, having her fingers tighten around the cup not to do anything drastic. She draws the line at throwing anything at a customer’s face because, well.

“Are you always that – defensive.”

She shrugs, false nonchalance. “Female mechanic. Single mom. Small town.”

What she doesn’t say: got pregnant at seventeen, my best friend is openly bisexual, my kid doesn’t have much friends because of it all. It’s not a series drama happening on the west coast, she doesn’t have to share her every demon and secret with him just for the sake of it. Still, what she offers is just enough for his eyes to soften, head tilting to the side as if he now sees her differently. There is no pity in his gaze, which is new – pity or sneers are all the other moms do on the rare occasions where she picks Henry up at school instead of letting him walk to Granny’s and wait for her.

She can deal with pity. She can’t with the soft caring look he offers her – mind going on overdrive, her every muscle giving up on her as the urge to run tingles deep within her bones. She promised herself she would stop, once Henry was born, she would settle. But it’s hard to remember that, when a stranger looks at you like you matter, like he sees something of worth in you – she isn’t used to that.

“I’m still expecting you to pay in real money,” she tells him, and takes another sip of her hot chocolate.

He chuckles, low and dark enough to warm her from the inside out. Or perhaps it’s just her drink. It’s her drink. “No Monopoly notes?”

“How about poker chips, huh, 007?”

When he laughs, it’s definitely not the drink.

 

…

 

He’s teaching Henry how to resolve his math problems the following day.

He’s happily chatting with Ruby the day after.

Emma doesn’t know how to handle it. It’s not like Storybrooke is in the middle of nowhere; they have buses, and rental cars, and even a train station not far away. He could leave, if he wanted, and she would give him a call so he can come back and pick his car. Surely he has a job, a life, plants to water. Something. Anything.

Emma comes to accept his presence in her town, although belligerently. She won’t speak to him if he doesn’t talk first, and almost always makes sure it is only about his car – there are delays in the shipment, of course, where would be the fun in making it fast? But it’s his reaction that throws her off-balance because – well, Emma isn’t blind nor oblivious. She notices the way he looks at her, she knows he’s interested.

He doesn’t make a move, and that’s what is unsettling.

She had pegged him as the kind of man who takes without being asked, who isn’t used to hear the word ‘no’ thrown at his face. Oh, he flirts alright, but backs off when she clearly isn’t interested, and never forces himself on her for too long. It’s unsettling, and Emma doesn’t know how to react.

Like she doesn’t know how to react to his smiles, and his laugh, and the way he points at this or that part of Henry’s textbook. She doesn’t know how to react when Henry tells him how awesome Killian is, and shows her the B- he got at his last biology exam. She doesn’t know how to react, so she doesn’t; head in the sand and everything.

It’s better that way.

He will leave, eventually.

She won’t get attached.

 

…

 

The engine arrives exactly a week after she ordered it.

It takes Emma and Billy only a few hours to get the car back and running, good as new. They even lose a few minutes just to listen to the engine purr, grinning like fools, because they are only humans – they have the right to enjoy it while it lasts. Especially when you know how boring the job can be at times. This is probably the most thrilling thing to happen this year. (Decade, century…)

Then Billy grabs a cloth, giving the Aston Martin its last polishing, and Emma has no other choice but to make her way to Granny’s. It feels weird, because she got used to that handsome stranger just being around for a handful of days – they don’t get many of them once summer break is long gone. Granny will probably mourn her patron too, but for different reasons, and isn’t that sad? That Emma will mourn his presence, instead of relishing in the check he’s going to sign?

Here goes nothing in the no-attach department.

Still she makes a show of handing him his keys back, professional grin and all – a smile he happily returns, unaware of the stone dropping low in her stomach at the sight of it. People leave, it’s the natural order of things, and Emma knows better than to think things will ever be different. It’s Henry and her against the world; no fairy godmother to boop her nose with a magic wand and change her fate.

Not that she doesn’t like her fate – they have a good thing going on, and she wouldn’t want to trade that for anything in the world. But even Ruby found Belle, eventually, and soon Henry will be old enough to have a significant one, too, and then to leave for college and – and then she’ll be like old Zelena, alone with her many cats and broken car.

What depressing thoughts to have over the owner of an Aston Martin, really.

“Here you go at last,” she tells him, fake chipper tone to her voice.

(Fake it until you make it. If you ever make it one day.)

“Thank you, love,” he replies, fingers wrapping around the set of keys, which – not helping in the slightest, let’s be honest. Neither is the look he gives her, sad, regretful, like he just realised too that he no longer has any reason to stay in Middle of Nowhere, Maine. He smiles, and perhaps it looks forces, perhaps she is projecting.

Emma knows better than to get her hopes up.

“I’ll be on my way, then.”

“Okay. Your bill will be ready for when you pick the car.”

“Okay,” he mirrors. Then, with a tentative smile, “Still no poker chips?”

Her smile blossoms on her lips, as she fails at repressing it. “Better chance with diamonds, perhaps.”

She doesn’t wait for him to reply, or even react – Henry is still at school, it isn’t lunch time, she doesn’t want to reach for reasons to stay. So she doesn’t. Turns around and leaves the dinner, forces herself not to look back, forces herself to walk away, head high, breathing deeply. She will ask Billy to deal with Killian Jones for the money, she has other things to do anyway.

And she’s busy alright, going through her paperwork – her office is a mess, always has been – and otherwise keeping occupied for the rest of the day. That is, until the phone rings, startling her both physically and out of her thoughts. She eyes it warily for a second, before picking up.

“Little Chop Shop Girl, how can I help you?”

A deep chuckle replies, and Emma doesn’t need more to know who’s on the other side of that phone. Still, she holds her breath, not daring to say anything else until he does. “Would you believe me if I say the car stopped and refuses to do anything?”

“Yeah. Cause it’s impossible.”

She knows her job; she didn’t make any mistake. This car is running flawlessly, she made sure of it – there is no way it could break down now of all moments, seriously.

“Impossible just became possible.”

“You are a menace,” she tells him, trying for deadpan but she hears the smile in her own voice. The grin. The joy.

“Or so they say. Looks like I will have to stay in town a little while longer, love.”

And, yes, it is a smile in his voice too, laced with shyness and hope. Emma has no idea how she can hear all that in a simple sentence, but she does – it scares her half to death, but the other half of her feels alive, with the thrill of things to come. The unknown of the future is as terrifying as it is exciting, all of a sudden.

“What a pity,” she says. “You’ll have to keep busy.”

“Aye, shame. I will have to try all the restaurants in town. On my own.”

Subtle. She likes it.

“Tonight at seven. The tow truck is coming your way.”

“Can’t wait.”

Surprisingly, neither can she.


	11. japanese for empty orchestra

Emma is a creature of habits, you see.

She likes her daily routine – waking up at 8.15am sharp, cooking breakfast for Henry and herself, dropping him at school and leaving for work. Her schedule isn’t a constant one, but on the days where she’s home before 6pm, she checks Henry’s homework and then they cook dinner together, and play video games or watch a movie. He goes to bed at 10, she at midnight. Same thing the following day, and the day after that.

Some might say it may for a boring life, but Emma disagrees – after so many years of being shipped to this or that foster home, never knowing where she’ll sleep or when she’ll eat, her routine keeps her grounded. That’s how she grew roots and came to call this apartment her home, that’s how she no longer feel like packing a suitcase and leaving with Henry in the middle of the night.

Emma is a creature of habits.

Some are just weirder than others.

Take, for example, Tuesday nights. Henry spends a few hours at the library, since they have some kind of book club slash creative writing class going on – Emma tried to enrol him into a sport team, but he’s too much like her, more artsy than athletic. So book club it is, and Emma gets the entire apartment to herself, soft music and glass of red wine, because sometimes the clichés aren’t all bad. She also gets to take an hour-long shower if she feels like it, able to shave her legs without fearing of cutting herself in her haste. Let it be known how glamour the life of a single mother is.

Her weekly shower also includes another component, another habit of hers that started a few weeks back, when old Zelena moved out and someone else moved in the apartment next door. The walls are not that thick – one of the main reasons why the rent is a little lower than usual, probably – and her bathroom is right next to his and… Well, it used not to be a problem, with old Zelena.

It definitely is – something, now.

She puts her hair into a bun on top of her hair while the water warms up, looking at herself one last time in the mirror before she steps inside the shower stall. The burning water turns her skin a darker shade of pink as she scrubs the last remnants of makeup off her face and groans at her muscles finally loosening up. A purple bruise is blossoming on her hip, courtesy of the asshole she handcuffed this morning, and she feels sore all over – she can’t wait to go to bed and sleep this one off.

She’s pouring shower gel on her bath sponge when she hears the radio being turned on in the other apartment, cheerful voice-over singing the praises of – she can’t actually hear, between the wall and the sound of her own shower. Still, it brings a smile to her lips as she starts scrubbing her body. The ad comes to an end and another follows, cut short when he switches to another station, making Emma grin. Sometimes, she can even hear him grumble until he finds something that catches his attention.

Today, it takes about thirty seconds before a song she’s familiar with starts playing, the sound a little louder as not to be drown be the sound of both their showers. It’s not really that hard to jump into things in the middle of a verse – she is used to it by now, no longer embarrassed at the idea of someone listening to her.

“And I take a deep breath and I get real high…”

He jumps in too, his voice an octave or two lower than hers, “And I scream from the top of my lungs, what’s going on?”

Sometimes, Emma wonders if her neighbour can hear the smile in her voice when she sings – the grin blossoming on her face when their voices mix together perfectly in the middle of whatever song they picked that day. She hears him laugh sometimes, the chuckle almost too low to make it to her side of the wall – once she even heard him fall, the colourful ‘bollocks!’ having her laugh out loud as she pictured whatever ridiculous dance move he tried to pull off. This is about every she knows about him; he’s her age, more or less, and he’s British. It isn’t much, but it’s more than she can tell about most of her past relationships. (If one could even call them that.)

“And I try, oh my god _do I try_!”

And, really, it’s kind of ridiculous how good his voice is – she feels awful next to him, especially when they have to reach such high notes. Her voice breaks but his doesn’t, and she wonders if he got some professional training. She has no idea, and it’s such a trivial question when she could be wondering what his name is (‘K. Jones’ on the mailbox not helping) or even what he looks like. Emma barely ever meets her neighbours in the hallways, and she never found herself in that awkward position when you’re both opening and-slash-or closing your door at the same time.

So, yeah. K. Jones, British, in his thirties, maybe professional musician.

“And I pray, _oh my god do I pray_!”

He’s laughing now, voice laced with mirth, and – Emma refuses to have a crush for someone she never met, never even saw but… But it’s stupid. She could go and knock at his door. _He_ could come and knock at _her_ door. He’s probably not interested, he probably already has a girlfriend, and it’s just good fun with the crazy neighbour lady once a week – something to tell around the coffee machine the following morning, so the colleagues will laugh.

Not that Emma cares, anyway.

 

…

 

Anna decides to throw her engagement party in a karaoke bar of all places, which is a very Anna thing to do. It’s been almost two decades now, but Emma still isn’t entirely used to her cousin’s quirks. It’s a bit of a mouthful, sometimes, especially when Emma finds herself in a crowded bar, where she knows about five people – one being her son, two being her cousins. She orders a beer and goes sit in a corner, hoping against all hope nobody will ask her to sing and she will be able to use the Henry excuse to get out of there early.

It’s a Saturday and Henry is 13, the excuse won’t hold, but –

But she can try, even if it works for a grand total of an hour before Elsa grabs both her forearms and manhandles her into sitting with everyone else. She coaxes Emma with promises of a spa session next week and an endless supply of shots tonight, and it does the trick alright – Elsa knows her too well, anyway. And that’s how Emma finds herself laughing at Kristoff’s rendition of _I feel pretty_ , and filming Henry when he goes on stage to perform _Call me maybe_.

And it’s good, and Emma actually has fun, and – of course, she should have guessed her cousins were only lulling her into a state of false security. She startles when her name is called, only to send a glare Anna’s way seconds later. “Bride’s orders,” she mouths, and Emma groans internally – she’s been using that excuse ever since Kristoff proposed, and Emma can only imagine the nightmare she will be once she actually starts planning the wedding.

So Emma drags herself on stage, hellbent on getting rid of this chore as fast and painlessly as possible. That’s only then that she notices that another name was called, for some guy – a friend of a friend of Kristoff, maybe – jumps on stage with her and throws a grin her way. Great. Not only her cousin in the pain in the ass, but she’s a matchmaking one at that.

Emma rolls her eyes as she grabs her mic, even more so when the first notes of the song start playing – of course, Anna would go all in and select a very cliché duet, queen of subtlety that she is (not). She throws herself into the song before he can, stealing the male’s part of the song just to ruffle his feathers a little. And because it’s funnier that way, too.

“I got chills, they’re multiplying…”

She glances his way with a smirk of her own, waiting for his reaction. He’s handsome, the kind of handsome she’d have a one-night stand with if it weren’t for the fact that she has to get home with Henry – tall, scruffy and handsome, exactly what she likes. Also, he’s looking at her with wide eyes as she goes through the first verse, no doubt surprised that she stole his part. Tough luck, buddy, play Sandy now.

And he does, fingers wrapping around his own mic as he moves closer to it. Even then, he keeps looking at her, and the words that come out of his mouth make her gasp – or perhaps choke on her own saliva.

“You better shape up, ‘cause I need a man…”

And, well, it’s not the lyrics themselves that has her react – no, it’s the voice, painfully familiar, even if not muffled by a wall and water, even… Her eyes widen, too, and she understands his reaction now, understands he recognized her the same way she did, just the sound of her voice. She wants to laugh, almost, because what are the odds, really?

The rest of the song happens in a blur – she doesn’t remember much beside getting confused with the lyrics, and the way he grabs the buckle of his belt to do the Travolta thing with his hips. Which, there are children in this bar, thank you very much.

And perhaps she’s in a bit of a daze because he won’t stop grinning at her, amused and fond, and it does things to her that Emma can’t ignore. Just like she can no longer ignore the crush she developed on that man during the past few weeks, and how little disappointed she is that she finally got to meet him. Not matter how unorthodox the meeting, of course.

The song ends and everyone starts cheering them, but Emma can’t look away from him, especially when he steps closer and wets his lips – almost nervously, looking away for a second before his blue eyes lock with hers again.

“Hey,” he says, soft.

“Hi,” she replies, smile blossom on her lips. “I’m Emma.”

“Killian. Nice voice. Never heard it before.”

There’s a dimple in his cheek when he smirks. Two in hers when she laughs.

“Buy me a drink, Killian Jones from 305?”

“Gladly.”

 

…

 

(Emma soon learns that she and Killian can do more than singing in the shower.)


	12. Harvard, Emma. Harvard!

There’s a lot Emma loves about Ingrid – the fact that she adopted her and loves her as a daughter, of course, but also their trips to the mall, the Sunday mornings watching cartoons in their pyjamas, the long nights watching the stars together. Also, there is the endless supply of ice cream, which never hurts. Emma loves a lot of things about Ingrid, and wouldn’t trade her for any other mother in the world, for any of the other homes where she has lived.

But Ingrid is – she has her quirks, alright. It takes some time for Emma to get used to them, and some she will never truly accept or understand – the deep cleavages being one of them. And, well, lately Ingrid has been kind of obsessed with playing matchmaking.

Emma doesn’t understand it – she’s single, yes, but she isn’t exactly unhappy about it. She has friends, and her cousin Elsa, and sometimes one-night stands when she feels like it. She just doesn’t see herself as the relationship type, and would rather focus on her second year in college right now than find someone to date just because her mother decided enough was enough.

Studying law is hard enough as it is, after all.

But, obviously, Ingrid doesn’t get the memo, and Emma quickly runs out of excuses to dodge the blind dates and dinners with this friend’s son and that friend’s nephew. The coffee date with Walsh is a disaster, August simply doesn’t show up, and Graham agrees that they should just stay friends. Ingrid even tries to hook her up with a girl named Lily and – it’s not that Emma minds, per se, it’s just that she really, truly, isn’t interested in dating anyone right now.

Her mother still doesn’t get the memo.

Emma is in the middle of a study session at the library – she had a mid-term paper to write, and a book to review, and why did she think minoring in Women’s Studies was a good idea? – when her phones buzzes with a new text. Some students glare her way at the sound, and Emma offers them an apologetic grimace as she grabs her phone and unlocks the screen. Of course, a text from Ingrid awaits her and, of course, Emma expects the worst.

The worst it is.

‘Emma I sat next to the nicest young man in Starbucks today. Harvard. Marine biology. I showed him a picture of you and gave him your number.’

Emma’s eyes widen a little more with each word, and she forgets to breath of a second. It’s a joke. It has to be a joke. She’s totally joking right?

But she knows, deep down, that her mother is serious and just went out of her way to find the perfect boyfriend for Emma and – that would be the worst part, if the worst part wasn’t the fact that a perfect stranger now has her phone number. So, with trembling fingers (out of shock or out of anger, Emma can’t tell), she sends a replying text.

‘What the hell mom? You can’t give my number to a stranger!’

The three little dots appear at the bottom of her screen, then, ‘HARVARD!’

And – okay, Emma doesn’t know much about Harvard, beside the overall reputation of the university and the fact that Ruby got there with a cheerleading scholarship. Well, now she also knows that a biology student has her number. Great. Just great. Is it too late to jump on a plane and join Elsa on her year abroad in Norway?

‘Ingrid lost her damn mind,’ she texts Elsa, because she needs to share that with someone, even if said someone is living halfway across the globe.

‘Family trait,’ Elsa replies less than a minute later. Then she adds, ‘Don’t worry, it’s genetic.’

Emma let her head fall against the table with a groan.

 

…

 

The text arrives when she’s in the common room with Marian and Merida, watching reruns of The Great British Bake Off. It’s from an unknown number, which has Emma frowning at her screen, before her eyes widen – how she managed to forget the my-mother-is-nuts-please-send-help issue is beyond her, but Emma knows better than to question how her mind works. Especially when Harvard biology guy is texting her. Priorities, and all that.

She’s dreading the worst, when she opens the text.

‘I’m guessing your mother told you by now, but I want you to know that I am not planning to keep your number and will have no problem deleting it’

One, she’s now imagining Ingrid snatching the poor guy’s phone and adding Emma’s phone number herself – not the best image to have in mind, and not Ingrid’s finest hour. Two, it’s… actually really sweet of him? Well, also kind of the right thing to do if one doesn’t want to look like a creepy pervert. But mostly sweet.

‘Thank you,’ she sends. Her fingers keep typing. ‘And I’m sorry about my mother, she’s a bit of a mouthful sometimes’

She’s a lot of a mouthful, and it’s putting it lightly. Sometimes, Emma wonders why Ingrid is still single, because she’s clever and beautiful but – truth is, there isn’t a single person on the planet would could handle Ingrid on a day-to-day basis without being related to her. It’s just not possible.

‘Don’t worry, she was sweet’

‘A little bonkers’

‘But really sweet’

The snort escapes her nose before she has time to swallow it down, because it’s a fair enough description of Ingrid. Of course, the noise is enough for both her friends to stop watching the show and stare at her instead, and Emma gives a lame excuse about having some reading to do for tomorrow’s class before she makes a run for it. She wouldn’t know how to explain the situation without looking like a nutcase, anyway.

Also, she has no idea why she keeps replying. She still doesn’t know who he is, and still isn’t interested enough in the concept of dating as a whole to even try to be interested in him in particular. Not to mention that Ingrid would be gloating for weeks, and Emma is stubborn enough not to make it happen for that reason alone. Which is probably why she’ll end up alone with sixty cats, but. There are worst fates.

‘Apparently, it’s a family trait…’

She plops down on her bed, and stares at her textbooks. Her phone buzzes. The compulsory reading for her International Law lecture can wait.

‘Well, you sound perfectly normal to me, but what do I know?’

She won’t smile. Emma definitely won’t smile at her screen like a teenage girl with a crush, because it would be proving her mother right, and it would be going against each and every one of her values and – okay, she’s smiling.

‘I’m Emma btw’

‘And I’m Killian’

‘Are you really at Harvard, Killian the marine biology major?’

Harvard isn’t that far from Boston U, her brain tells her – thanks, but not asking. Just like she isn’t asking for a selfie of Killian the marine biology major, but it’s what he sends anyway, just to prove that he indeed is wearing a Harvard hoodie. Which doesn’t prove anything, they sell those everywhere, but. Mostly, he’s good looking. Extremely good looking. Emma can understand why Ingrid saw the appeal.

(She hates when her mother is right.)

 

…

 

Emma jumps out of bed and grabs the first shirt she finds, pulling it on as she makes her way to the door. She has no idea who would be knocking so early on a Sunday morning, but they better have a good reason or else – or else she wouldn’t do anything, really, because she’s still half asleep and mostly running on caffeine. She’s be useless in hand-to-hand combat.

“Who’s that?” she asks, hand on the handle.

“It’s me, duckling.”

Emma has the good instinct of mouthing the curse, instead of saying it out loud. Ingrid wouldn’t make her put one dollar in the curse jar, but she still would scowl and – yeah, still not awake enough for that. Definitely not.

“Yeah, okay. Give me a minute.”

She runs back to her bed, if only to puts on some pants too, and grabs a brush to tame her hair a little. She feels like she’s making a bigger mess of things, but it will have to do. Emma pulls it up into a ponytail, too, to limit the damage. She takes a deep breath, and goes back to the door to unlock it, big smile and everything.

“Hey, mom. What are you doing here?”

“It’s nice to see you too, duckling. I was just –”

Ingrid’s eyes travel downward, settling on the shirt Emma is wearing before widening all of a sudden. Emma looks down – her eyes widen too, and she can’t quite keep the muttered ‘fuck’ to herself this time. Because she’s wearing the Harvard shirt. Of course she’s wearing the Harvard shirt.

Which, yeah. And of course, it’s the moment Killian decides to show up, only wearing sweatpants and bed hair as he wraps his arms around her waist. “Love, what are you doing out of – oh, hi Mrs Swan.”

Ingrid doesn’t correct him on the surname – she’s too busy being excited for that.


	13. forehead kiss

If Killian has discovered one thing about Emma since they started hanging out, it’s that she is competitive. Outrageously so. It’s not exactly something he had expected of the quiet, close-off blonde when Ruby introduced them – and Ruby only did so because Emma is friends with Mulan, who dates Ruby, who’s friends with Killian. It’s some weird Seven Degree of Kevin Bacon, not that Killian can complain about it because he’s been smitten even since she argued about him about the historical accuracy of Pirates of the Caribbean and stole his beer to make a point.

Still. Competitive as hell, which is something Killian discovers on games night with their friends, because Emma gets ridiculous worked up over a game of Pictionary and even accuses Lancelot of cheating at a game of Werewolf, of all things. So when Merida enrols them all in a trivia night at the local bar, Killian knows to play smart – he asks Emma to be on her team, for the sole and unique purpose of not being in the team competing against her. (Well, not the sole and unique purpose, but you know.)

She squints at him, a very Emma thing to do, but agrees anyway, if only because he majored in history and minored in geography, and they need that knowledge on their team. “Careful there, Swan, I’ll mistake you for someone who cares,” he replies, and gets an actual smile from her, his first one. It’s a little hard to concentrate, after that.

It’s a lot harder when the game actual start because – she’s something else entirely. She bounces in her seat, and yells the answers, and yells even more when they get points. Her glower alone could scare off her opponents, and Killian is suddenly glad he’s on her side.

Also really turned-on, but what do you want.

They’re winning fair and square by the time they reach the last round, but she’s still on the edge of her seat, just in case. Gwen is laughing as she pokes Emma’s cheek, and she laughs even louder when Emma swats her head away with a huff. Killian smiles too, because the sight is just that endearing. If he didn’t already have a crush on her, he probably would have started today.

“Okay, let’s do this,” she says, leaning forward as if it could help her hear the question better.

Marian, the barmaid who’s hosting trivia night, clears her throat as she picks the last card of the night. “Literature,” she announces with a smile. She glances Emma’s way, before she focuses back on the question. “In The Hobbit, what are the names of the thirteen dwarves?”

Every eyes are on Emma – Harry Potter enthusiasm, Roald Dalh lover – but she only opens her mouth in surprise, and it takes about one second for Killian to understand she doesn’t have the answer. She frowns, obvious confused and upset, and shakes her head a little.

That’s when Killian rings their bell, and he feels her eyes on him as he lists, “Thorin, Dwalin, Balin, Gloin, Kili, Fili, Dori, Nori, Ori, Oin, Bifur Bofur, Bombur.”

There are five long seconds of silence as Marian checks the answer on her card, before a smile creeps up on her lips and she says, “That’s right! Ugly Ducklings win the game!” and everyone starts cheering.

Emma actually jumps on her feet, yelling and doing the most adorable victory dance known to earth. She turns to him then, with that beaming grin on her lips that has Killian’s heart bursting, and then she grabs his face and presses a kiss to his forehead, laughing.

“You’re the fucking best, Jones.”

He swears he’s blushing, even as he replies, “Aye, not too shabby yourself.”


	14. eyelid kiss

Killian doesn’t mean to startle her when, after half an hour looking for her through town, he finally finds her by the docks, sitting on a bench and staring at the water. But he does startle her, and Emma jumps to her feet, fists closed in front of her face in a defense stance, only for her to wobble on the spot quite suddenly.

He hurries by her side, arms raised to hold her back if she falls, but Emma lets herself fall back on the bench instead, with a groan as she hides her face in her hands. Killian sits next to her, unsure of what to do at first – he wants to rub her back in a comforting motion, but they are far from there in their relationship. So he stares at her instead, the way she tugs on her hair a little as she runs a hand through her blonde locks.

“Are you drunk?” he asks.

She laughs at him, the sound bitter and hollow, and still refuses to meet his eyes. Instead, she keeps staring at the ocean in front of her, and leans forward to grab the bench. Her body still sways dangerously, and her knuckles are white around the wood.

“I’m _celebrating_ ,” she replies after a while. “Big one-and-eight today.”

It takes about two seconds for Killian to join the dots. “It’s your _birthday_? Why didn’t you tell anyone?”

She showed up in Storybrooke only a few months ago, not long enough for people to actually ask her when she was born – hell, people are more often than not afraid to ask her for a pen in class. She made some friends, Killian included, but she never speaks much and only Elsa gets more than three sentences on a good day. Killian shouldn’t be that surprised nobody knows Emma’s birthday is today, all things considered.

“David got me a puppy. A fucking _puppy_!”

She finally looks at him, scandalized. As far as Killian knows, the sheriff is a good foster father – the entire town knows the Nolans can’t have children of their own, but they adopted Leo when he was a baby, and Emma lives with them too now. They look like the kind of idyllic family you put in cereals commercial, really, and Killian sometimes is jealous of them. He has a brother in the Navy and a drunk father, and all the reasons in the world to be jealous.

“You don’t get someone a puppy if you don’t want them to take care of it in the long run,” she adds, almost angrily. “You just don’t.”

“Sounds like the opposite of a problem to me.”

She glares at him. “I’m 18. They could have kicked me out and they gave me a puppy instead. They want me to stay even if they’re not paid for it.”

“Ah.”

“Nobody ever wants me to stay.”

He doesn’t say ‘ah’ this time, but the metaphorical light bulb switches on on top of his head, and he hums in reply. He can’t even begin to comprehend what she is going through, but he knows from Lancelot that the foster system isn’t exactly the best place in the world sometimes. She must have had a shitty life, not that Killian would ever ask for details.

(He wants to know everything about her, but not this way.)

“I want you to stay,” he finds himself saying, the words stumbling out of his mouth before he can swallow them down. His ears turn a crimson shade immediately, and with them his cheeks, his neck, as he looks away from her in embarrassment. “Sorry, I didn’t want to...”

He looks back to her at the same time she leans closer, and her lips sloppily land on his eye instead of – his cheek? his temple? She’s drunk and has a terrible aim, is all he knows. Her eyes widen almost comically, and then she bursts into laughter, little wrinkles at the corners of her eyes and double dimples in her cheeks.

(He is so smitten it’s ridiculous.)

“How did you name it?” he asks.

She beams at him, still drunk. “Dug.”

“What a terrible name.”


	15. upside-down kiss

“That’s the stupidest game I’ve ever played,” Emma grumbles as she cups her hands around the dices, shakes them for good measure, before she throws them on the table.

When Ruby first coaxed her out of her dorm with the idea of games night, Emma had naively thought of someone plugging a Wii in the common room, as well as a Monopoly or even a party of Jenga. She hadn’t expected Mulan and Lance to be weirdly invested into tabletop role-playing game, and for them to drag everyone down the rabbit hole of their obsession. It had started, of course, with Dungeons and Dragons, had evolved into some weird Harry Potter game, and now here they are, playing something called _Once Upon A Time_ where she gets to be a fucking _princess_ turned fucking _mage_.

“One and two,” Merlin reads on her dices.

Emma groans, because she’s _invested_ now.

The _nightmare_.

“You try to walk around the trap,” Merlin reads from his book, because of course he’s the GM. “But you are not stealthy enough and you trigger the trap. It snaps around your ankle, pulls you up, and you’re hanging upside down from the tree.”

“What? Fuck no! There’s not way I do that with three points.”

 _Very_ invested.

Killian chuckles from where he is sitting next to her, so Emma elbows him in the ribs and his laugh ends into a hiss of pain as he glares at her. Emma glares back, with a purposeful nod toward the game as to tell him to get her out of this shitty situation. She’s the only mage of the group, they need her anyway, and he’s playing next.

So Killian heaves a sigh and rolls his eyes, even as he grabs the dices. “I go to help Princess Leia out of her trap. I use my sword to cut down the rope and get her out,” he says, before rolling the dices.

“One and one,” Merlin announces with a smirk. “Not only do you epically fail at your dashing rescue, but you trip over your own feet and find yourself kissing Princess Leia instead of helping her.”

“ _WHAT_? No, fuck no, I’m not kissing him.” She points a threatening finger to Merlin. “Fuck you.”

“Don’t insult the master, Swan,” Merlin replies with the grin of someone who has planned this a long time ago. He always does that kind of shit, using little annoying plot points to get their characters into weird situation like that. And, okay, it did work for Lance and Gwen, having to declare their feelings for each other to break away from a curse that had been blocking them for three rounds, but come on! Everybody knew they wanted to date anyway!

“Oh I want in,” Ruby declares as she snatches the dices. “If you kiss Leia when you fail to save her, I _so_ want in.”

“Sitting right next to you,” Mulan deadpans, only for Ruby to grin at her and land a peck on her lips.

It takes a little while longer for them to actually get Emma’s character free of her trap, and they bicker about the logistics of it long enough for Killian to lean closer to her, his chin almost on her shoulder. Emma’s breath doesn’t catch in her throat when she turns her head and sees him so close, because it would be a ridiculous body reaction to have.

“Come on, Swan,” he says with a smile, not a smirk. “It was a good kiss.”

“You wish,” she replies petulantly, still a little peeved.

(She shows him what a good kiss looks like once the game is over.)


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> M-rated college AU smut

Law school is a nightmare, and anyone stating otherwise is either lying, delusional, or too busy hiding corpses for Viola Davis. Emma sighs for the umpteenth time as she reads through her notes, glasses sliding down her nose and allowing her to rub her eyes – either in exhaustion or defeat, she doesn’t know anymore. The words are getting kind of blurry at that point, and she forgets everything the moment she turns the page.

Killian is not helping – at all. His last exam was yesterday, and he’s been lounging in her bed every since like he’s some kind of lazy cat waiting for a belly rub. He’s actually waiting for her to take her last exam – Criminal Law, tomorrow morning – so they can both grab their suitcases and go to Storybrooke for Christmas break. She’s going to introduce him to Ingrid, and she’s terrible at pretending it doesn’t make just as nervous as that damn exam.

She’s sitting on the edge of her bed, because the desk’s chair is killing her back by now, so it gives him the perfect opportunity to move close to her and wrap an arm around her waist. She would protest and swat his arm away, but he only does that and goes back to napping, so Emma doesn’t really mind. What she minds are the words on her pages that don’t make sense anymore – too little sleep, too much coffee, four-syllables words just won’t happen.

She startles with a yelp, only to glare down at Killian. He looks up at her with the biggest, most innocent eyes he can muster, but his lips are still on her skin, just above the hip, and she didn’t imagine the scrap of his teeth. Hell, he’s looking at her with that glint in his eyes she knows all too well, and she closes her own eyes with a sight.

“I can’t now and you know it.”

“Come on, love,” he replies, voice sinfully taunting. Let it be known that dating a foreign student _is_ a bad idea, for the accent alone. “You’re all tense, it will help.”

“Actually studying will help even more.”

But he is right, of course – there is a crick in her neck, her shoulders are stiff, and she’s not even talking about her lower back. Her eyes are starting to burn a little, too. Basically she is a mess, and she needs a break, but – probably not the kind of break Killian has in mind, because post-coital naps very much are a thing with her and she can’t allow it today.

“You’re going to break down if you don’t stop, and you know it. Cramming won’t help.”

He shifts behind her until he sits up, hands on her shoulders. A moan escapes her lips when he presses his thumbs to the knots in her muscles, her eyes closing on their own accord. Five minutes, she thinks, she can allow herself five minutes before she goes back to studying. She deserves it, really.

His breath ghost against the nape of her neck, warm and ticklish, before he brushes his lips against her skin. Emma had never been one for displays of affection, public or otherwise, before meeting Killian – living with Ingrid helped with opening up to people, but casual touches still makes her uncomfortable more often than not. But Killian is _clingy_ , with his kisses and his hugs and the way he always feels the need to touch her, and. Emma thought she would hate that about him, but it turns out she’s actually seeking the physical intimacy now. There is something about the weight of his hand on her lower back that she can’t explain.

There is something about the massages he provides that she could explain, if she wasn’t too busy swallowing down moans of relief. It’s been a hard couple of weeks, tension building down against her spine, and it feels good to let go a little. If only for five minutes.

“You will succeed, love,” he whispers to her ear. “You’re bloody marvellous and I’m yet to see you fail.”

Her body trembles with a shiver that has little to do with his hands still on her. She bites down on her bottom lip, head tilt to the side to grant him easier access as his lips travel up her neck and closer to her jaw. Emma isn’t a demanding person, not that she is aware of, but the soft, “Go on,” tumbles out of her mouth anyway.

Killian stills for an instant, probably just as aware as she is of the shift in the mood. He smiles against her neck, one of those flashing grins of his, before he adds, “High school valedictorian. I saw the pictures on Facebook. Blood brilliant, you are, succeeding in all of your undertakings.”

She turns around so they can meet into a sloppy kiss, shifting until she finds herself lying on the mattress with Killian between her legs. The weight of him is familiar by now, and she relishes in it even as he moves down to kiss her neck, her collarbones. Her breathing goes ragged when he sucks at her pulsing point, no doubt to leave a mark there – he’s territorial that way.

“Straight As everywhere,” he goes on as his fingers find the buttons of her jeans and pop them open easily. “All the while volunteering at the orphanage and keeping a social life. Don’t you realise how impressive that is?”

Some part of her brain tells her that she probably shouldn’t be that turned-on by his words. But – but it’s less narcissism and more ego boost, really. She’s lived so many years without anyone praising her, without anyone really taking care of her, that she never really knows how to take a compliment. They are rare but always earned, of course, and Emma can only be proud of herself when it happens.

So coming from Killian and that sinful voice of his, knowing without a doubt that he means every word he says? Yeah, obviously it’s a turned-on. Obviously her boyfriend worshipping her that way is going to affect her and –

They both groan when Killian’s fingers slip beneath her panties – Emma because he rubs her clit, Killian because she’s already wet and ready for him. She could be embarrassed, but not really, not when he grins against her neck and circles one finger around her entrance. She forgets about any kind of emotion on the planet beside anticipation and pleasure.

“You’re going to ace that exam like you do everything else in life and – fuck, you’re so wet.”

His finger slide easily inside her, a moan escaping her lips before it gets stuck in her throat when Killian adds a second finger. He moves slowly at first, her hips swaying too until they find the perfect rhythm, until it leaves her breathless and panting.

They don’t often do that, just his fingers – he can do more than sweet talk with that mouth of his, after all – but Emma likes it all the same, likes how he moves them inside her until hitting that one spot that makes her see stars, and constellations, and entire galaxies. And it should be embarrassing, perhaps, how fast he gets her there, how ready she is after only a few minutes of sweet torture.

“Fuck, Killian.”

She grabs him by the hair with little finesse, pulling him to her mouth for a messy kiss she stops a few seconds later. Her mouth opens wordlessly, only silent pants tumbling out of it. She still holds Killian close to her, though, and so he goes back to his whispering.

“You like that, don’t you? You like hearing how much I love you, how much I admire you. Bloody hell, love, you have no idea the effect you have on me.”

“ _Fuck_ , Killian.”

He starts rubbing at her clit just then, the rhythm of his hand now matching that of his thumb, and Emma is left arching her back until her chest is pressed to his. His hips move too, riding his finger as she tightens her hold on his hair, as her thighs start trembling with the orgasm building inside her. She feels it seconds before she comes, her walls tightening around his fingers suddenly as she screams his name only for the sound to be swallowed by his kiss.

He helps her coming down from her high, finger moving slowing inside her until – long, long seconds later – she comes back to her senses. His fingers are slick when he cups her face and pulls her into a kiss. It’s the kind of kiss where he pours all the things even he can’t put into word, leaving her even more dizzy and breathless than any orgasm ever could.

She smiles into it before pushing him away, only so she can snuggle against him, hand pressed to his chest to feel his heartbeat against her palm. There’s a buzzing sound in her ears, and she doesn’t really know when she’ll feel her legs again, boneless and sleepy.

“Best boyfriend ever,” she mumbles against his neck.

Killian chuckles, and holds her closer to him. “I’m aware.”

She slaps his chest, and he laughs even more.


	17. Chapter 17

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kate and Leo ruined me for all other couples. I have no other explanation.

Emma has never been a fan of awards shows. Acting is her job and she loves it, but everything else – the interviews and red carpets and the paparazzi following her around – she could do without. She’s never been good at that kind of things, the promoting and the parading, and sometimes she wishes she could just shoot her movies and be done with it.

Tonight is one of those times.

She blinks against the dazzling flashes of the camera, hand on her hips and back stretched to a painful angle. The look-above-your-shoulder thing always looks good on pictures, but it has its price, and Emma swallows down a groan as she forces a cheerful grin on her lips. The red carpet at the Oscars is so long it makes her a little dizzy, but not as much as the flashes, the lights, the heat of Los Angeles. Her feet are starting to hurt a little, but she keeps going – knowing fully well Ingrid is watching her like a hawk, her manager not about to let her get away with a single mishap tonight.

She’s reaching the end of the carpet, David just about to give her his arm for her to lean against, when Emma hears the screams of fans and journalists alike – the familiar sound of “Killian! Killian, here! _Killian_!” She looks behind her shoulder, grin loosing its professional edge to settle into something a little (a lot) more genuine when she spots her best friend on the red carpet.

He looks dashing as always in his three-piece suit, hair a calculated mess on top of his head and dimples flashing in his cheek as he gives his best smile to the camera. He must feel her gaze on him, for he turns his head toward Emma, beaming at her when their eyes meet. Emma glances at Ingrid, who nods, before she makes her way back to the red carpet – under the cheers of the journalists, of course.

Her friendship with Killian sells. They met when they were seventeen, both rookies and both cast to play star-crossed lovers in a period drama. Emma can’t remember what her life was before Killian – doesn’t want to, more often than not. She doesn’t want to remember what it felt like being lost and a little alone, doesn’t want to remember what was the alternative to ringing Killian and ranting about this or that thing, asking his opinion on a script, attending awards shows with him. Their friendship is as truth and deep as the press makes it out to be, and the fans are obviously loving it.

(“What’s our portmanteau name, love? Kemma? Ellian? _Swones_?”)

He reaches an arm out when she makes her way next to him, and she fits perfectly against his side. The photographers are already calling their names excitedly, but Emma just takes the time to look up at Killian for a few seconds – grinning up at him like a fool, snorting a chuckle when he grins back.

“Fancy meeting you here, love,” he tells her, low enough that his accent rolls on his tongue. “And quite the lovely sight you make.”

“You’re not so bad yourself,” she replies, tugging as the collar of his shirt. “Clean up nicely and all.”

His nose wrinkles a little, just enough that it will look like nothing more than a little face on the pictures – but Emma knows better, can see the sarcastic snarl he’s offering at her even more sarcastic comment. He does look nice, and he’s perfectly aware of it, which is why Emma likes to poke fun at him for it. It always works, too, so she keeps doing it.

She only needs one little nod, though, to remind them both of the here and there, and they spend the following few minutes posing for the cameras. Smiles, hand on the hip, shoulder leaning against his chest – Emma knows the drill, has done it way too many times before. And in more embarrassing clothes that the dress she’s wearing tonight, may she add.

It’s over in a few instants, with a hand motion from Ingrid to lead Emma down the carpet again. She does so with a flashing grin toward Killian, to which he replies with a wink of his own – his chuckle lingers in the air as she walks away and back to David. Her brother offers her his arm, and Emma happily leans against him.

She isn’t nominated this year, so she only has to go through a few interviews before going inside, and Emma does so without a complain. She may hate it, but she knows how to remain professional in front of the camera, and she plays her role flawlessly – smiling and laughing and being her charming self, just like she was prepped. She talks about the nominees, of course gushes about Killian a little, and jokes about David being her date for the night.

If Ingrid’s little smile is anything to go by, Emma is doing just fine.

She still sighs in relief when she finally gets to sit inside, toying with the idea to just toe out of her heels during the ceremony. But she’s in the front row, a camera just a few feet away from her – it would be on the news before Best Costume Design is even announced, Emma Swan getting cosy at the Oscars. David grins down at her with a roll of the eyes, as if perfectly awake of her line of thinking, and she does the mature thing of poking her tongue out at him in reply. She may be a famous actress but, when David is involved, she’s nothing but the asshole kid she was at fourteen, angry and a little lost.

“Stop fidgeting,” he tells her like he’s her agent and not Ingrid.

Thankfully, Emma spots Elsa a few rows away from her, and goes to find her friend so she doesn’t have to throw a sarcastic reply at her brother’s face. It’s better for everyone involved, after all. And she gets to catch up with Elsa, who was away for month shooting a new movie in Norway – win-win, really.

And then the ceremony is starting, and Emma is back in her seat and back to whispering sarcastic comments in David’s ear. She’s only interested in Killian’s movie this year, nominated for best movie, actor and original screenplay – everything else she doesn’t really care about, but she soldiers on. Clapping at all the right moments, looking happy to be there when she knows the camera is right into her face.

The ceremony goes slowly, as awards show tend to do, but the running commentary she has with David keeps her entertained enough until the last thirty minutes – the most important thirty minutes. And it’s not that Emma doesn’t care about everything else, not exactly. But it’s Killian’s fifth nomination for best actor, and everyone says he’s the favourite, after winning both the Golden Globe and the SAG Award. It’s his time to shine, his time to win and – well, Emma doesn’t care about anything else tonight, truth be told. She just wants her best friend to have his moment in the sun. He more than deserves it.

So yes, Emma may be on the edge of her seat when Ariel arrives on stage with the dreadful golden envelope and a well-crafted speech read from the teleprompter in front of her. And the nominees for Best Actor in a Leading Role are…

Emma turns around in her seat to catch Killian’s gaze among the crowd – he’s sitting in the third row, a little to her right, and feels her eyes on him for he looks back and smiles. It’s not his usual, borderline on cocky, grin but something nervous, and Emma wishes she could sit next to him instead. He would crush her hand until his knuckles turn white and she would be there for him the way he’s always been for her.

The scene they show when his name is announced comes with a nice amount of cheers from the crowd (it’s no secret he’s everyone’s favourite this year) and Emma smiles despite herself at this version of Killian on giant screens. It’s not exactly the best part of the movie, but the intensity in his eyes and the clench of his jaw do the all the word for him as his character yells an inspiring speech to his men.

Ariel cleans her throat on stage, fingers toying with the envelope of doom. “And the Oscar goes to…” she starts before she opens the envelope.

Time stands still.

Emma holds her breath.

She wants Killian to win. She wants Killian to win even more than she wanted herself to win when she was nominated last year. She doesn't even know what she will do if he doesn't win, because he deserves it more than anyone else tonight, and he will just pretend he doesn't care if he loses, he will think he doesn't deserve it, that he's nothing, that's he just that orphan kid he used to be, that kid who doesn't matter and...

"Killian Jones."

Emma's jaw drops.

Her mind goes numb, only the racing beating of her heart against her ribcage grounding her to the here and now. She doesn't know how to react – she barely reacts at all when everyone else around her is cheering and clapping, when David next to her is laughing, when... When Killian is suddenly pulling her out of her seat and into a crushing hug, his arms so tight around her waist and his face pressed to her neck. She laughs, a little breathless and a little hysterical.

"You did it," she whispers into his ear.

"I did it," he replies with a chuckle of his own, the kind that gets stuck in the back of his throat. Or maybe that's the sob in his voice. Perhaps a bit of both.

Emma's barely holding it when he lets go of her to climb on stage under the standing ovation of the audience, and she sags back in her seat with a wishful sigh. There is no doubt that a camera will be pointed at her face all through Killian's speech but she can't exactly stay composed and professional right now, not when the biggest grin ever threatened to blossom on her face any second now. Not when her eyes get all misty at the look of wonder in Killian's eyes when he grabs the golden statuette, when he turns to the crowd with that impish smile of his – the real, borderline on shy, one.

"Thank you," he starts, breathless like he just ran a marathon. "Thank you so much. Thank you to the Academy and everyone in this room."

Emma's hand raises of its own accord, fingers pressed against her lips as if to prevent the emotions from bubbling out of her mouth. David finds her free hand on the armrest between them, squeezing it – she doesn't look down, is unable to look away from Killian even for a second.

"I would like to thank the entire cast and crew, and especially Robin, my brother on and off screen."

Emma does look away this time, Robin sitting next to his wife Marian a few seats away from her. They couldn't have found a better actor to play Killian's brother in the movie – the same stature and dark hair, the same English charm, the same grin. He's grinning, looking as proud as Emma feels right now.

"A big thank you to Ursula Cecaelia for being such a talented director and such an amazing human being. You are the proof that dreams do come true and that talent goes beyond gender and skin colour. Thanks to my mother and my brother, wherever they are. I know they would be proud of me tonight." 

Emma gasps, or perhaps sobs, her hand slipping away from David's grasp so she can put them both in front of her mouth. She's hiding half of her face in the process, but at least she can also hide her meltdown.

"A big thank you to my friends for the never-ending support through the years, for always being there for me during the harshest of times. I wouldn't be there if it weren’t for you." Killian turns toward her then, raisin his award to her like one would do a toast – his knuckles are white from holding it tight, his grin dazzling. "Especially you, Swan. You have been with me from the very start and I wouldn't be half the man I am if it weren't for you. This golden lad is yours as much as he is mine."

Her heart soars at his words, the grin finally splitting her face in two. She grabs her chest, and David's hand again, not knowing what to do with her body in that moment. Not knowing what to do with her mind either, because her heart is whispering something to her, new and blossoming and... _Oh_.

"Oh..." she whispers, low enough than no one heard it.

Killian goes on with his speech, unaware of the reaction his words triggered. How could he, when their relationship has been strictly platonic for years, when on more than one occasion they joked about the possibility of it happening. There was a kiss, once, as bad as they were drunk that night. They've always been friends. They're _great_ are being friends.

Was it denial or did she just have an epiphany?

How can she tell?

She can't, and she's stuck in her seat as she watches Killian finally leaving the stage – he winks at her, the moron, and Emma has no idea how she manages to smirk back, how she just doesn't combust on the spot. She sits a little straighter, taking in as deep a breath as she can. David is staring at her, because of course he is.

"Are you okay?" he asks, always the perfect(ly worried) older brother.

Her smile is weak when she turns toward him, "Yeah I'm fine."

He frowns in reply, squinting at her a little. Then, a simple "oh" appears on his mouth, to which he continues with a knowing nod and "Of course." Emma wants to hide her face in her hands, for entirely different reasons this time – denial it was, apparently.

"Shut up," she tells him without heat.

His fingers squeeze her, and it's more comforting than Emma would have guessed, for such a simple gesture. But David has this way about him, to always calm her down when she needs it the most – before her first audition, when she gave birth to Henry, at her first awards show. It's no surprise that he is just as caring tonight, when her own heart just won't stop racing and her own mind is screaming at her.

It keeps screaming all through the rest of the ceremony. If you'd ask her, Emma wouldn't have been able to tell you which movie won Best Picture, too focused on the idea of finding Killian backstage once everything is over, once she can get up and –

And do what, exactly? She's never been a grand gesture type of woman, and even with the sudden reveal of her feelings for her best friend, well. He's still, first and foremost, her best friend, and that's a lot – he's her person, and she doesn't want to ruin that, not when the fear of rejection still keeps her awake in the middle of the night. Not when she still doesn't know how anyone believes she's talented, and one day they will wake up and see the truth. One day this will all be taken from her, because that's the way things go in her life. If she grows too confident, the first mistake.

She can't lose Killian, not like that.

She still finds herself on stage at the end of the ceremony, still finds him in the crowd of winners. People are congratulating him left and right, of course, but he only has eyes for her when he finally spots her, only has eyes for her when she moves closer until she fits against his side. He's grinning like the fool he is, not that Emma can blame him. She's grinning too, especially when Robin finds them, pulls his costar into a bear hug – with the groan and all. It's all happiness and laughter for a few minutes, Ursula joining the party, and with her Ariel, Elsa, even Jefferson.

Emma doesn't quite know how she finds herself backstage after than, only aware of Killian's solid arm around her waist as he pulls them into a corner, away from the crowd and from prying eyes. He's still smiling, will probably keep smiling all night long, and Emma fights the urge to just poke at the dimples in his cheeks.

She doesn't fight another urge, though.

"I told you so."

His laugh is deep and carefree, rolling down his tongue easily and warming Emma from the inside out – this is definitely new, too. Loving him is easy; Killian is an asshole, but her kind of asshole. Being in love with him doesn't seem very difficult either, like it was made to be, like she would always get there eventually.

"Aye, love. You did tell me so and you were indeed right. I bow in front of your wisdom."

"Don't be an asshole," she shoots back with a laugh of her own.

His grin is dazzling. So dazzling that she takes a step forward and into his personal space, just enough to hear his breathing getting stuck in the back of her throat. His eyes widen a little, but he doesn't stop her or push her away – he doesn't do anything at all when her hand rises to cup his jaw, when her thumb brushes against his cheek.

He doesn't move either when she rises on her tiptoes, when her mouth finds his in a barely-there kiss – more like a caress, really. But she steps back and so does he, and for a moment she can't read the emotions on his face. Until it turns to something soft and caring, until his eyes are loving and a little bit awestruck. The smile dancing on his lips is soft, too, and Emma finds her own mouth mirroring his, despite herself.

"That was..." he starts in a breathless whisper.

She winces, expecting a rejection that never comes. He stays silent instead, waiting for her to finish his sentence – waiting for her to choose for the both of them, his eyes roaming her face with wonder and no small amount of disbelief. It scares her half to death, and the need to run away tingles in her legs and her heart. She hasn’t run away in a very long time, but the self-preservation is still there, waiting, dormant.

She wants to run. But gosh, does she want to stay.

“A congratulation kiss,” she says. His face falls, just a little, but her hand travels to grab his neck and pull him closer still. “This one, on the other hand…”

This one is deeper, more passionate. This one is all teeth and tongue and Killian groaning in the back on his throat as he pulls her fully against his, as his hand grabs her hip until almost leaving bruises, as his Oscars presses against her back. This one, this kiss, is so much more than just a kiss – it’s the discover of new feelings, the exploration of new possibilities, the whisper of a different kind of promises.

Emma has had many an epic kiss onscreen, the kind that leaves the audience sighing and smiling. None of them compare to Killian’s mouth against hers, to his tongue brushing hers, to the warmth of his chest against her breasts. It’s addicting, to say the least.

She never considered the idea of being in love with Killian before today. It’s just that obvious now, like the sky being blue or water being wet. She’s in love with Killian, and he does seem to love her back, if the way he can’t let go of her is anything to go back.

That is, until her phone starts ringing – the Imperial March, no less – and startles them both away from each other. Killian chuckles, hand rising to scratch that spot behind his ear, while Emma opens her little clutch and grabs her phone.

“Hey Henry,” she greets.

“Killian won!” he all but yells, forcing her to move the phone away from her ear.

“Yeah!” she laughs. “I was there, thanks! Do you want to talk to him?”

She hands Killian the phone before Henry even has time to reply, hearing his excited half of the conversation even muffled by the speakers. She grins as she leans against Killian, cheek pressed to his shoulder. His arm tightens around her waist even as he accepts Henry’s congratulations, the softness of his smile making her heart beat a little faster.

It’s another minute before he hangs up, slipping the phone into the pocket of his suit before he hugs Emma a little closer, chin resting on top of her head. They will need to move soon, if only because people will be looking after them – a bunch of other interviews to give, pictures to take, before the night is over. Still, Emma closes her eyes, and enjoys this moment, simple and quiet.

“Are we really doing this?” Killian asks her at last, a little wary.

His fear of rejection matches her own, more often than not.

“Yeah,” she replies, and that’s obvious too. “Yeah, we are.”

He presses a grinning kiss to the crown of her hair. “Good.”


	18. Chapter 18

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “we broke up after I left and moved away and months later I find you that you rushed to the airport to stop me but you were too late” AU

Emma knows that, technically speaking, the Earth is a big, vast place. She went to Cuba with Ruby during spring break one year, and goes to Norway with Ingrid every Christmas ever since she was adopted. She even spent a year in London on a study abroad program, and knows people in more countries than she has fingers. The Earth is one, big, vast place, that is for sure.

And yet, ‘it’s a small world’ has never made more sense than when she bumped into Marian Locksley in the middle of Boston. Marian Locksley, who very much lives in London. Or at least she did, last time Emma checked, which – was when she was in London herself, come to think about it. Maybe she should open Facebook once in a while, just in case.

“Emma!” Marian exclaims happily.

Emma has always liked Marian. She’s effortlessly nice with everyone, but fierce too, and she can hold her liquor like nobody else. Emma saw her beat all her boyfriend’s mates at many a drinking contest during happy hour, laughing her pretty ass off when Little John almost passed out on a table.

And speaking of boyfriend, Robin pops up from nowhere, arm around Marian’s waist and surprised smile on his face when he notices Emma. She forces a polite smile on her face, too, but can’t help the knot in her throat when she looks at him. He’s so much like his cousin – same dark hair and fair complexion, same ‘I couldn’t bother to shave this morning’ facial hair, same amused sparkle in his eyes even if his are brown. They’re both such a presence when they enter a room, that tall, British and handsome vibe to them that worked so well on Emma until – until life caught up with her.

“Hey, you two,” she replies even as she can’t hide her own surprise. “What are you doing here?”

“Oh, I found a job here actually”, Marian tells her. Emma tries to remember what she was studying – something that has to do with environment perhaps? “It was a hard call, but we decided to move here anyway.”

Well, this explains that, Emma guesses. She’s still studying herself, a few more years of law school before she can graduate and officially be a lawyer – or, well, be an intern in whichever firm will want to hire her. She’d probably think twice about moving to a whole different country for work, though, and the thought surprises her. There was a time when she would have done anything to move, move, as far away as possible and never stop, but now she has Ingrid, and Elsa, Anna. Now she has a family she loves and trusts, and leaving them is harder than not leaving anything or anyone behind.

She shakes her head, and focuses back on the couple in front of her. “Want to have a drink and catch up?” she asks, because it’s the right thing to do.

She’s been back to the US for a couple of months now, enjoying summer break, but she could do with catching up with old friends. Marian and Robin must have a ton of new stories to share, about their drunken shenanigans in Camden Town and Tink’s latest adventures in bullshitting her way through adulthood.

The Locksleys accept, and soon they find themselves in a small coffee shop, laughing and joking like Emma never truly left. It’s weird at first – neither of them were really close to Emma, just acquaintances and friends of friends. Or, well, cousin of maybe-boyfriend but. Let’s not be nit-picky on semantics if we can help it.

Marian excuses herself to the bathroom at some point, and the conversation dies down in a matter of second. Emma usually is one to meet conflicts head first, not knowing when to stop or avoid arguments in her stubbornness, but she finds herself avoiding this particular conversation like the plague. Not that Robin lets her have her way. Not that she can blame him for it, he’s too loyal to his family for that.

“Why didn’t you call him?” he asks her softly, no trace of judgement in his voice.

Emma finds herself frustrated anyway. It isn’t Robin’s place to judge her for what happened (or, well, _didn’t_ happen) with Killian when the spring semester came to an end. It is, quite obviously, between Killian and her, and Emma would like it to remain that way. Without people to come and meddle, she doesn’t have to think about it, and it’s better that way. She doesn’t want to think about the what ifs and the could have beens of an alternate timeline where she didn’t take a plane back to Boston, where she let whatever was happening with Killian blossom into something more.

“Listen,” she starts, trying her best to shove her feelings back down and to appear collected in front of Robin. “This was never meant to last. I knew it, Killian knew it. We always had an expiration date.”

Robin’s eyes widen ever so slightly, mug stilling halfway to his mouth as he stares down at her before, slowly, delicately, he puts his drink back down on the table. He stares at her some more, Emma looking right back at him with a stubborn set to her chin and a challenge in her eyes. She doesn’t like the way he seems to be sizing her up, all of a sudden, but hell if she’s going to show him her weaknesses so easily.

“You don’t know,” is what he settles for.

Emma sighs loudly. “Don’t know what, Robin?”

“He ran after you,” is all Robin needs to tell her for Emma’s blood to turn to ice in her veins, for the colours to leave her face. “At the airport, he – he tried to stop you from leaving, to convince you to stay. He was too late but…”

Emma’s ears are buzzing so loudly that she doesn’t quite hear what Robin says next, what further explanations he gives. Her hands are clammy as she rubs them against the fabric of her jeans, her lips dry when she licks them nervously, stars behind her closed eyes.

_How could I know_? She wants to yell at Robin. _How could I fucking know_?

But the words get stuck in her throat, along with her feelings and the sip of hot chocolate she can’t quite swallow. Breathing is a hard task, all of a sudden, and so is remaining still and collected. She blinks, once, twice, but the feeling doesn’t go away – instead, nausea rises within her, head spinning when she stands up too quickly.

She mumbles some kind of excuse to Robin, asking him to say bye to Marian for her, that they will catch up soon enough. He calls her name, and makes for standing up too, but Emma’s survival instinct kicks in before he can hold her back, running away from the coffee shop as fast as she can. She makes it down the street before she takes a big gulp of air, choking on it a little when her lungs close painfully.

The tears sting at the corners of her eyes, but she doesn’t cry.

 

…

 

Coming back home happened in a blur, closing the door behind her before she leans against it and lets herself slide down until she sits on the floor of her apartment. It’s too big, too empty and silent. She grabs her phone in her pocket, stares at the background for longer than is truly necessary – it’s a picture they took together, Big Ben in the morning. He’d mocked her for how cliché the picture was, and she’d used it as her background just to piss him off.

She presses her thumb to the phone just long enough for it to open, then goes to her contact list. His name is still her, Killian Jones followed by the little anchor emoji. She never thought of deleting his number – not just out of principal, but because it didn’t cross her mind up until now. She’s never been more thankful for it, in a frightened way. She wants to call, of course, but the other part of her, the part that’s been burned and broken too many times, prevents her from doing so. It’s just too dangerous, and Emma Swan doesn’t do dangerous when it comes to her feelings.

Still, she can’t help but count in her head. It’s an old habit – five hours. Early afternoon for her means evening for him. Not late enough for Killian to be asleep and for Emma to have the perfect excuse to chicken out of it. She wishes she had Ruby or Merida next to her right now. They would grab the phone and make the call for her, leaving her to glare at them while she takes the phone back and puts it to her ear.

“Oh fuck it,” she mutters to herself, before she presses her thumb to the screen once more.

She leans her head against the door behind her as she listens to the phone ringing, closing her eyes so tightly she sees stars. Her throat is dry, a little, and she forces herself not to bite down on her bottom like – an old nervous habit from her teenager years, one that used to drive Ingrid up the wall.

Killian picks up at the third ring.

“Emma?” he asks, surprise barely hidden in his voice.

Emma’s heart leaps in her throat, just from knowing he never deleted her number either. She wonders if her contact picture showed up on his screen, the selfie of the both of them she took at St Patrick’s Day, drunk and happy and kissing.

“Hey,” she replies, wincing at herself already. She sighs, and decides to cut the chase. “I saw Robin today.”

“Oh,” is his only reply at first. There’s some noise on his side of the phone, like he just let himself fall flat on his back on his bed. She can almost picture him rubbing the bridge of his nose, too. “How’s dear ol’ cousin doing on the new continent?”

“Good, I guess.” She braces herself. “He told me, about the airport.”

His intake of breath is sharp, the way it was when she would graze her nails down his back. She misses him. She never allowed herself to miss him, once she’d taken the plane, but she does – she misses his stupid smirks and the way he would sweep his tongue along his teeth when flirting with her, the sway of his hips when he walked, his mouth against her collarbone until she panted beneath him. She misses him so much it hurts, the tears stinging in her eyes once more.

“Aye,” he chuckles darkly. “ _That_.”

Emma lets the silence settle between them for a moment. She can hear him breathe into the phone, faintly, and it’s amazing how that alone manages to sooth her. Killian was always so good at comforting her, with just a hug and his hand into her hair, until she would fall asleep to the rhythm of his heartbeat. She shouldn’t even be surprised, that it still works on her so effectively. It’s only been a couple of months, after all.

“What happened?” she asks. The need to know is stronger than the need to run and hide from him, from them, from her own feelings. Perhaps it will give her some kind of closure, instead of vehemently denying something ever happened between them.

“I was late. Took it as the sign from the universe it was.”

It’s simple, to the point. And it makes her angrier than she thought it would.

“So you decided not to call me because – bad traffic sent you a sign?”

“There were technical problems on the Piccadilly line.”

“The _tube_ sent you a sign?”

Killian only replies with a shameful silence, painfully aware of how nonsensical that sounds. Emma wants to be angry with him, but it also sounds completely ridiculous, and a nervous laugh escapes her lip before she can swallow it down. Killian’s chuckle echoes hers, low and soft, and it puts a real smile on Emma’s lips.

She’s still smiling even when she asks, “But really, why?”

It’s not a sigh as much as Killian breathing loudly, before he explains, “Remember that time you and Gwen went on a drunken tirade about Friends? How Ross was a fuckboy and Rachel should have never gotten off the plane for him, because she would ultimately resent him for keeping her away from her dream job?” The memories are hazy, but not exactly surprising – Gwen and she had a tendency to rant about the most various topics, really. “I remembered that and I realised that – if you wanted to stay, you would have. It would have been unfair of me to force your hand like that.”

It’s frustrating, how much of a gentleman he can be at times. Not in a bad way, of course, because Emma loved the way he let her be in charge, let her take her time to open up to him and to learn to trust him. But still, this sacrifice of his own feelings for the sake of hers is ridiculous – Emma has watched too many romantic comedies to know tension always lies in a cruel lack of communication between both parties.

“Maybe I wanted you to stop me. Maybe I wasn’t brave enough to do it on my own.”

Her admission leaves him speechless, for so long that Emma checks her phone to be sure that neither of them hung up by mistake. But he’s still there, still with her, and he whispers a “oh love…” so broken that Emma’s heart breaks all over too.

“I miss you,” she admits in a whisper, like saying it out loud is too much.

“I miss you too,” he replies, with the kind of conviction that makes Emma’s heart stutter in her chest. “Bloody hell, love, you have no idea how – wait. Just wait here.” Emma frowns, even more so at the noise coming from his side of the conversation – the ruckus of Killian standing up and moving stuff around, until she can hear the sound of a body bumping into a piece of furniture, followed by a particularly colourful “oh bollocks!”

There more noise before Emma recognizes the familiar typing of fingers against a laptop’s keyboard. It doesn’t take a genius to put two and two together from there.

“Killian, no,” she tells him.

He chuckles, loud and throaty, before he replies, “Killian, yes!”

Emma laughs too, and rolls her eyes at this man, this beautiful perfect man who apparently decided to buy a plane ticket on the spot just because of a single phone call. She never allowed herself to think about it in so many words but – but it’s hard, to deny the fact that she loves him. She loves him so much it’s ridiculous, leaving her fuzzy and warm on the inside. Even more so when she tells herself that, yes, he most definitely loves her too.

“You can’t just… move to a new country on a whim.”

“Is that a challenge? Because that very much sounds like a challenge.”

“You’re a moron.”

He grins into the phone. Emma doesn’t see it, but she can _feel_ it. “A moron you fancy, though.”

And yes.

Yes, she does.

 

…

 

Emma decides that if there ever is a moment to be completely and utterly corny, it is this one. Killian’s plane lands not two days later and she waits for him at the terminal, holding a sign with his name on it, like a dork. She can’t stop smiling despite the nervous flutter of her heart, and the old lady waiting next to her ‘ooh’ and ‘aah’ a lot when she sees the happiness obvious on Emma’s face. It is something that would usually annoy Emma to no end, but she finds herself not caring.

Not when she can finally spot Killian as he walks past the terminal’s gates, dragging a suitcase behind him and looking for her in the crowd. A grin of his own blossoms on his mouth when his eyes finally find herself, blue against green. He looks down at her sign and grins even more, the smile turning into a booming laugh when she throws herself at him.

She kisses every inch of his face, fast little peck that have him laughing and laughing as he pulls her into a hug, refuses to let go. She grins too, dropping a particularly loud kiss on his mouth before she leans back and look at him. Really look at him, the blue of his eyes, the light freckles on his nose, the scar across his cheek. Her fingers brush against his jaw before they settle on his neck, his own hand finding its way to her hair.

For the first time since she came back, Emma feels at home.


	19. gotta catch 'em all

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Pokémon Go happened to me (and the rest of the world), I have no other excuse

Here’s what happens: Henry go bananas the moment he downloads the Pokémon Go application, to the surprise of no one ever. It’s a little bit weird, for Emma – growing up in the foster system, she never really played video games, or got invested in any kind of thing like Pokémon, or cards, or anything. She only had her Harry Potter books, and is perfectly aware that there’s a pit the size of the Grand Canyon in her pop culture knowledge.

So when Henry gets into Pokémon Go, Emma doesn’t feel some kind of weird nostalgia about it, because she never owned a Game Boy as a kid. It’s just some other game Henry is obsessed with at the moment, the kind he talks about a lot.

The thing is, Emma doesn’t mind Henry playing video games in the comfort of their living room, even if the music can sometimes be annoying when she’s trying to rest. Henry playing video games that involve walking around New York with his phone out of his pocket, on the other hand, makes her pause. She doesn’t want to be the kind of mother who refuses to let her kid outside because of the stranger danger thing, but. Still.

So she agrees to go outside with him on the weekends and, to make up for the fact that he can’t go outside alone, also agrees to help him out when he’s at school. Which mostly involves walking around, something she already does on a daily basis. Only now it’s walking around until a virtual egg hatches, and then putting another virtual egg in a virtual incubator. Rinse and repeat, make your son happy.

It takes her about four days to get _invested_ in it.

But then again, who’s surprised?

She stops at Time Square once, and the application lightens up with stops and gyms and Pokémons to catch. So she uses the stops, fails at claiming a gym, catch three new monsters, and stops pretending she’s only doing it for Henry after about ten minutes. Because it’s _fun_ , and there are lulls in her jobs when she just sits in her car and do nothing, and now she has something to do.

(Something to do _other_ than Candy Crush.)

The following weekend, Henry and she pack sandwiches and spend the day in Central Park, catching Pokémons and having some weird mother-son bonding time where they both swear a lot but also have a ton of fun. Henry trash-talks her because he catches a good Pokémon where she fails, and she catches him into an arm-lock, messing his hair until he groans and groans.

The next Monday she finds herself in Brooklyn, looking for a guy who bailed on his ex-wife money. It’s a calm day, mostly walking around and waiting, up until the moment her phone vibrates in her pocket. She checks it out, just in case, only to find out there’s a fucking _Dragonite_ next to her and she’s a weak, weak woman who’s apparently going through childhood twenty years too late.

She finds the Dragonite in some random bar, so of course she enters, nose stuck to her phone. She’s startled by a pointed cough, looking up to find the bartender staring at her, towel thrown over his shoulder and hands on his hips – _hand_ , singular, the prosthetic catching Emma’s eyes when she does a quick sweep of his body.

“If you want the dragon thingy, you need to buy,” he tells her with the bored tone of someone who apparently had to say the same thing a thousand times in the past week.

Emma shrugs. “A coffee will do.”

She sits at the counter, and it takes her less time to catch the Dragonite than it takes the man to make her coffee. Then she grabs Henry’s phone in her back pocket, and does the same thing, knowing fully well he wouldn’t be happy if she caught the Pokémon for herself but not for him.

The guy puts her cup of coffee in front of her, and Emma thanks him with a smile. He goes to refill another customer, before he comes back to her, and Emma takes the time to look at him a little closer. He’s attractive, there is no denying that – the scruff and ‘I got out of bed five minutes ago’ look always worked on her, and those blue eyes are to die for. She tries to remember the last time she had a date, or just a one-night stand, but she has to count in years, not weeks or even months, so she stops right there.

“You know,” the bartender starts, nodding at her phones, “Some people content themselves with only one.”

She looks down, then snorts through her nose. “Would it make it better if I told you that one is my son’s?”

He squints his eyes at her, like he’s trying to call her bullshit, and Emma replies with an even look, refusing to blink. It only makes him frown a little more, his eyes sparkling with amusement, before he steps away with a shrug. “For your own sake, I’ll believe you on that one.”

Emma grins at him, before she takes a sip of coffee. The front door opens at the same moment, two kids wandering in, and the bartender sighs heavily before giving them the same line he gave her. It seems to spook the kids alright, tripping on their own feet in their attempt to run away as fast as possible, and Emma raises an eyebrow at him. He shrugs again, shamelessly.

“I have bills at the end of the month, and this isn’t a museum.”

“No, there’s more than one Pokémon in museums, believe me.”

He smirks, and Emma hides her groan and her blush behind her cup of coffee. She takes another sip, only to look up to him again and – the way he looks at her is almost _fond_ , which catches Emma off balance a little. She’s never been good at being flirted at, especially when sober. She’s much better at setting the rules, making the decisions – being in power makes her feel safer, unlike right now.

“You’re not like other players, you know?”

She rolls her eyes at the line, but takes the bait anyway. “And what do other players look like to you?”

“Millennials and kids, for the most part. Guys who left Reddit for the first time in years, too.”

“Wow, Nintendo made the meninists go outside. A true miracle.”

The bartender laughs out loud, a throaty, barking laugh that pleases Emma more than it should. Or perhaps it is the way wrinkles appear at the corners of his eyes when he laughs, maybe even the dimples in his cheeks. All she knows is that she’s fucked, and that Ruby will squeal of delight in her ear the moment she learns that the Great, Single Emma Swan is developing a crush.

He stares at her for a moment longer, before he extends his hand toward her. “Killian.”

She doesn’t hesitate before grabbing it. “Emma.”

“Nice to meet you, Emma.”

When her cheeks heat up this time, it is not out of embarrassment. It is the way her name rolls off his tongue like a sin, the softness around his eyes when he smiles at her. How someone can show interest in you when you are the crazy mom catching Pokémons in the middle of the day, Emma doesn’t know, but hell if she is going to complain about it.

By the time she finishes her coffee, he adds his number to her phone and invites her for dinner on Wednesday. Emma doesn’t find a reason to say no, but a hundred to say yes.

 

…

 

Emma has never introduced Henry to a boyfriend before. Her longest relationship, beside the hot mess that was Neal, was with Walsh, and she grew tired of hearing about furniture restauration before she even thought of introducing Walsh to Henry. She doesn’t want her son to meet and get attached to men who will not stay around, either because she will drive them away or she will get scared and dump them before anything more can happen.

But it’s been two months, with Killian, and it’s doing great. It’s doing better than great, if Emma is honest with herself, the need to flee not as strong as it used to be. She can’t remember the last times she wasn’t afraid of caring about someone, the last time she let herself take that leap of faith. Ruby is more invested in this than she should, and Elsa smiles happily for her, and Emma has never felt more certain of anything in a very long time.

She can’t help but being nervous, on the day Henry and Killian are meeting. Henry has been nothing but positive about it, like the adorable kid he is, but Emma still worries that he will simply not like Killian. She doesn’t want to choose between them, but Henry will always come first, will always be her priority.

She shouldn’t have worried though, because Henry only spends about twenty minutes testing Killian – poor Killian shifting uncomfortably under the unforgiving gaze of her teenager and licking his lips more than is necessary – before her son just shrugs and starts talking about something that happened at school yesterday. Killian relaxes next to her, his hand loosening its grip on her knee, and Emma smiles at him reassuringly.

“Hey mom, can we go to Central Park after?” Henry asks after a while.

He’s been doing good, not checking his phone once ever since they sat in the coffee shop, but his patience wears thin easily – something, Emma has to admit, he takes from her. She isn’t nearly surprised he’d want to go outside and play a little afterward, and he’s been so good that she can’t exactly refuse. Killian buys them another round of hot chocolate and cakes, to go, and off they go to the park.

They find a spot close enough to a Pokéstop to make Henry happy, but without too many people around, and then Emma sits on the ground, before Killian does the same and she shifts to lie down with her head in his lap. He idly plays with her hair, but there is still tension in his shoulders so she sneaks her hand under his shirt, draws patterns on the skin of his back. He closes his eyes, a soft smile ghosting on his lips, and Emma smiles back when he looks at her again.

“Mom!” She turns her head, find Henry grinning excitedly a few meters away. “There’s a Scyther.”

Emma bites on her bottom lip not to grin, even more so when she glances at Killian only to find him sighing and rolling his eyes. He looks amused, though, obviously knowing what he got himself into when he asked her out, all those weeks ago. He will huff and puff a lot, for the heck of it, but he always looks so fond when she gets excited over a particularly good catch.

(And he can’t really talk. She saw his Doctor Who and Star Trek collections.)

(He can’t talk _at all_ , the nerd.)

“Gotta catch them all, right?” he asks her as he pushes her head off his lap to stand up.

Emma doesn’t tell him she could probably catch the Scyther from where they are, since Henry isn’t that far away. Instead, she lets him help her up on her feet, and then lets him wrap an arm around her waist as they make their way closer to Henry.

Killian complains a little, for good measure, when she happily throws herself in his arms to celebrate her catch. But he also kisses her cheek, all loving and adorable, and Emma wraps her arms around his neck and scrunches up her nose at him. He kisses her nose, too, before Henry starts making gagging nose.

Yeah. She definitely caught that one.


	20. Chapter 20

The day it first happens, Killian doesn't even realise it's the day when it first happens. He wakes up one morning with a smudge on his wrist, and doesn't think much of it at first. He and Willa did some arts and crafts yesterday, and Killian probably missed a spot when he cleaned himself. It happens. 

But then he wets his thumb with his tongue, and scrubs, and the smudge doesn't go away. Scrubbing harder isn't any more effective, so after a few seconds Killian just stares at the fading ink on his wrist, frowning. It looks like it was a star in another life, maybe, before someone tries to wipe it away. 

And then it dawns on him. 

Someone drew the star, and it showed up on Killian's body. Someone who happens to be his soulmate. He has a soulmate out there, drawing stars on her skin and being unhappy about it. He can only smile, a big happy grin that blossoms on his lips even as he runs out of his room and down the stairs. 

“Quiet, lad,” his mother shushes him without even looking his way, stirring the oatmeal in the pan. 

He stands next to her, watching for a few moments before he glances down at his wrist and grows excited all over again. 

Killian knows soulmates aren't everything -- his mother is proof enough, falling in love with a man who wasn't her soulmate and who gave her two children before disappearing into the night for a better life, one that didn't involve bastard children and a wife not truly meant for him. Killian knows he could go on with his life, alone, and he would be alright. 

Doesn't mean he want that to happen. He wants to be someone's person, wants the certainty of love and a happy future. 

Whoever this girl is, she's perfect, that much he knows already. He's allowed to be more than a little excited about it. 

“Mom, look!” he says finally, bouncing on his feet a little even as he shoves his wrist under his mother’s nose. 

She grabs it between her fingers and pulls it away from her face with a look that isn't unlike Killian's, before the ghost of a smile appears on her lips. 

“Well excuse me then, because you're not a lad anymore.” She brushes her thumb against his skin, melancholy on her features. “You're a man now, my darling.”

“It's just a mark, mom,” he replies with a groan when she runs her fingers through his hair. He tries to get away from her caresses, out of habit, but he's all talk and no action. 

His mother decides to make celebratory oatmeal, which means she adds chocolate to it because she can't make pancakes this late into the morning. Killian grins at her when she adds a glass of orange juice next to his bowl before going to wake Willa up. His sister is her perfectly annoying self when she hears the news, ruffling his hair and tell him how proud she is of her little brother. 

“Younger brother,” he replies around a mouthful of oatmeal, an automatism at this point in life. Willa’s grin only broadens, never one to be bothered by her brother’s lame comebacks.

It's only when he's at school, dozing off during a particularly boring maths lesson, that Killian stares at his wrist again. The smudge is still there, not entirely wiped away, and so he grabs his pen to write a small “hi” underneath it, along with a smiley face. Nothing happens beside the teacher asking him a question, startling Killian out of his thoughts.

He staggers an answer under the mocking chuckles of Will, who sits next to him, and the unhelpful whispers of Robin behind him. The teacher doesn't look too impressed, of course, but she accepts his answer with a reminder to listen or just leave the classroom. Killian opts for the first option. 

He's in his history class, the last and best of the day, when he notices the change on his wrist. Gone is the smudge of the star, but that's not what he focuses on when his short message has been blackened by a marker, so much so that it's impossible to even read what he had written down in the first place.

Killian frowns. Whoever this girl is, it seems that her reaction to their soulmate connection was the exact opposite of the one Killian had this morning. It almost looks like she tries her hardest to hide the fact that Killian exists, let alone is able to communicate with her Iike he so wishes. It's a letdown, to be quite honest, and Killian doesn't know how to react to it.

He guesses leaving her alone is the best thing to do for now. They are soulmates anyway. They're meant to happen, eventually. 

 

…

 

It's funny how this thing quickly becomes part of his daily life, how fast Killian is to getting used to it. Sometimes a little scribble will appear on his palm, nothing more that his soulmate trying a pen to see if it works. Sometimes he will see a date and a hour, for an appointment of some kind. Sometimes, and those are the funniest, algebra appears on the back of his hand, only to be wiped away an hour letter. He grins at those, learns that she is bad at maths, and perhaps even in history if the random date popping on his skin is anything to go by. He cherishes those pieces of information, as rare as they are. 

Until he wakes up one morning, and finds a list of names on his forearm.

> ~~ Swan ~~
> 
> ~~ Brown ~~
> 
> ~~ Johnson ~~
> 
> ~~ Gibson ~~
> 
> ~~ Chavez ~~

It goes on and on, every name in a neat handwriting before being crossed out with a stroke of ink. Killian stops counting them after the tenth one, from the wrist down, until his eyes find the one in the crook of his elbow, the only one not crossed out. 

Arendelle.

Killian’s mother watches enough crime shows on tv for Killian to understand what this means, and his throat tightens at the thought. He knows what being an orphan feels like -- he’s stayed awake in the middle of the night, wondering why he wasn’t enough, why he wasn’t enough to make his father stay. Being unwanted, unloved, is perhaps the worst feeling in the world, but Killian has always considered himself lucky to still have his mother, his sister.

This girl, whoever she is -- she has no one. Bouncing from foster family to foster family, keeping their names on her skin and in her mind. Her disappointment almost tastes bitter on Killian’s tongue, like he can share her mind, her feelings. He knows it’s not the case, knows he is only linked to her by the ink on their skin and nothing else.

Still, in that moment, he hopes she knows she isn’t alone anymore.

 

…

 

It’s only a matter of weeks before what Killian thought to be cute and quirky becomes a problem. He doesn’t take long to understand they are not living in the same timezone, and that she is mostly likely American, so the fact that she sometimes uses her wrist as a crib sheet isn’t really a problem to him. They’re barely at school at the same time, and she’s good at writing the answers on her skin just before the test, and wiping them down right after. It works for him in that it doesn’t annoy him all that much.

Until the day it does.

Killian’s best theory is that she forgot. Which. It happens, and he can’t really blame her for it. Only he has a maths test the following day, and the formulas are still on his skin, no matter how hard he scrubs. It just won’t go away, because the ink technically isn’t on his wrist. It’s just the shadow of someone else’s handwriting, and there is nothing to be done about it.

Killian can’t help but be nervous about it. Even if he has a little reputation at school from getting into fights once in awhile and for the way he looks and acts, he’s never been bad at school. He has good grades, and is never a little shit to the teachers, and is just fine making himself invisible for classes he doesn’t like. At worse, he will nap during a lesson.

So cheating has always been out of the question.

But of course it means that his maths teacher zeroes in on the scribbles on his arm about ten minutes into the test. Killian tries his best to explain, especially since the formulas on his wrist have nothing to do with today’s test, and why would he bother writing down things he doesn’t even need, but his teacher doesn’t listen, and instead kicks him out of the class.

He gets a bunch of hours of detention on top of that, and forces himself not to punch a nearby wall out of frustration at how unfair this is. It’s not even like soulmates are uncommon, since almost everyone has one, so people shouldn’t even be surprised this kind of things happens. Did they believe he was lying just to get away with it? Why?

The first thing he does when he goes back home is locking himself in his room. The second thing is grabbing a pen and, cap stuck between his teeth, he write a ‘thanks’ next to the maths formulas he hopes to be as sarcastic as he feels. And bitter. Damn.

It doesn’t take long this time before the ink disappears in front of his eyes, only leaving a faint grey mark behind. He glares at his wrist, out of principle, and so witnesses the way the letters appear on his skin, one after the other in a neat handwriting.

‘oh shit sorry’

Nothing less, nothing more. Killian debates with himself for long seconds about whether or not he should reply but. It’s the first time she’s actively contacted him, instead of pretending he doesn’t exist. The first time, and he doesn’t want it to be the last, doesn’t want her to be a stranger, to be someone he never meets, just a shadow on his skin.

‘that’s okay’

He curses himself the moment he writes it, for how hollow it sounds. But it is okay -- he won’t blame her for something she couldn’t predict, and he definitely won’t blame her for her teachers being stupid. It wasn’t her fault, and he doesn’t want her to feel bad for it. Which is something that has never happened to Killian before, this need to put someone else’s feelings first, this urge to care about someone, to make her his priority. He wonders if it’s only because she is his soulmate, or if he would do that with any other girl. Not that he will ever test that idea, anyway.

He’s thinking of something to add, some way to sparkle a conversation, when three new words appear on his skin, three words that make him snort out loud when he reads them.

‘boy or girl?’

He circles the ‘boy’ as a way of replying, and is rewarded with a simple, little ‘oh’ next to it a few seconds later. Killian bites down on his bottom lip not to grin to the emptiness of his bedroom.

‘disappointed?

‘no it would have been fine either way’

He stocks that newfound piece of information with the other ones, in that box that feels too empty inside his mind. He knows so little about her that sometimes he wonders why he feels so attached to her already, why he cares so much about a girl he barely knows. Just because she’s his soulmate? It’s weak, as far as reasons go, and he’s old enough now to understand that it doesn’t make for a good, solid relationship. He’ll need more than that, they both will. Hell, he would even just settle for…

‘Emma’

...her name.

Emma, he thinks. It’s pretty. He wishes he could say it suits her, but then again… Still, he has a name, which is more than he had yesterday and, hopefully, less than he will have tomorrow. He doesn’t know where this is heading, what will happen next, but he’s ready for it, whatever this is.

‘Killian,’ he replies.

She wipes her part of the conversation, only leaving a little smiley face next to his name. She doesn’t write anything after that, but the smile stays on his wrist until the following morning, and it keeps Killian in a good mood every time he glances at it.

 

…

 

They start playing tic-tac-toe when bored.

She always wins.

 

…

 

She writes ‘I’ll be in London this weekend’ and Killian simultaneously has a heart attack and chokes on his own tongue, in the middle of a lecture. All the other students around him glare at him, but the professor doesn’t stop his lecture, let alone notice one of his students almost died on the spot. Killian closes his eyes and take a deep breath, before he grabs a pen in his bag and writes on his own skin, a ‘wtf’ that goes straight to the point.

He’s twenty-one, about to graduate, and nothing prepared him to finally meet Emma. It’s been years of doodles of his skin, and improvised hangman when they’re bored, and fragments of conversation once in awhile. She’s a constant in his life, someone he can talk to if he wants, someone who’s always there at the back of his mind. He stopped thinking about meeting her a long time ago, because Emma is too busy with law school, and he’s too busy to figure out what he wants to do with his life (this English literature degree will only take him so far) for either of them to plan a trip to a whole other country. Because there is the question of ‘and then what?’ to which Killian still doesn’t have an answer.

But the answer will have to come, sooner rather than later.

‘spring break,’ she replies. ‘my bff really wants to visit London’

He isn’t disappointed, that she’s traveling to his country for something other than meeting him. It doesn’t leave a bitter taste in his mouth, or makes him reconsider his value. No, because that would be stupid, not to mention overreacting. He can’t focus on the reasons, when he will finally get to meet her. The reasons are not important, only her presence by his side is.

‘okay, keep me posted,’ is all he replies, because he’s a moron.

 

…

 

Tink, the girl he’s sharing an apartment with, teases him for the next three days. Not that he can blame her, because he is a rightful mess from beginning to end, and the situation doesn’t really improve from there. Tink forces him to go out, on Friday night, and Killian gets drunk on cheap beer only to wake up with a hangover the following day.

The following day being Saturday.

The following day being the day he meets Emma.

They agreed on a location -- thankfully nowhere near the most touristy spots, a little pub Killian knows well, just close enough to a tube station that it won’t be hard for her to find. He shows up ten minutes early, because he’s a moron that way, and settles at one of the tables in the corner. It gives him a perfect view on the entrance door, and so he’s the first in line when the pretty blonde enters the pub.

It’s her. He knows it’s her the moment his eyes find her, because there is no other way. She’s perfect in every way -- not just because she is beautiful, even if she is, but from the way she holds herself, looking around her like she is both lost and determined, like life is a battle that she wants to win. Killian already was halfway in love with her, just knowing she’s his soulmate. And now he’s falling hard, looking at her with his mouth slightly agape, until he breaks out of his trance.

He stands up, more nervous than he has any right to be.

“Emma?”

He winces at the sound of his own voice, croaked and unsure, but it is soon forgotten when her eyes find his. They are green and vibrant, curious too, before a tentative smile settles on her lips, just enough to tease him with the two dimples at each corner of her mouth.

“Killian,” she exhales, like she’d held her breath up until now, like relief takes over.

She moves closer to him, until they stand a few feet away from each other, until he can see the freckles that kiss her nose, can smell the delicate perfume she wears. They stand a few feet away from each other, Killian nervously scratching the spot behind his ear, Emma rocking on her heels a little, neither of them knowing what to do. What are you supposed to do, when you’re meeting your soulmate for the first time?

Apparently, Killian’s brain settles on, “What are you so bad at maths?”

It makes Emma laugh, the sound loud and surprising -- it seems to surprise her too, if the way she looks is anything to go by. But it also breaks the ice, and then he asks her to sit at his table before he goes and grabs some beer. She looks at him when he’s at the counter, ordering, and he looks back at her. The same smile in on her lips, and Killian grins back.

Whatever happens next, they will be fine.


	21. Chapter 21

Emma is opening the ice cream shop for the day, nine o’clock and the beach filling up slowly while the surfers are already chasing the waves, when Ruby bounces her way toward her, all happy grins and high ponytail. Her legs are barely even hidden by the shortest shorts Emma has ever seen and, unsurprisingly, she forwent her tank top, electing to only wear her bikini top instead. Emma forces herself not to stare too much, if only because Ruby very much has a girlfriend and Emma isn’t quite that desperate.

“Did you see the new lifeguard?” Ruby asks instead of greeting her, leaning her elbows on the ice cream shop’s high counter.

Emma looks down at her with a smile and a roll of her eyes, amused. “Obviously not. Girl or dude?”

Ruby’s grin turns feral. “Dude. Very _hot_ dude.”

Emma rolls her eyes once more before she switches on the slushy machines. They start humming lazily, and Emma nods to herself once, satisfied. Then she checks that the ice cream machine didn’t have a problem during the night – she doesn’t want to go through the Melting Accident of last year all over again, thank you very much.

“Let’s hope nobody drowns from staring at him too much.”

Ruby cackles – actually cackles, that ugly-sounding laugh that Emma loves so much. Graham is Storybrooke Beach’s usual lifeguard, has been for years now. He was Emma’s first crush, too, and they dated for a few weeks one summer before deciding they were better off as friends. Now he took the entire month of August off, to go on a road trip with Ariel, and they have a new lifeguard for the next few weeks. A hot one, apparently.

“As long as he doesn’t make the ice cream melt…”

“Oh girl, he’s going to make _you_ melt alright,” is all Ruby replies, with a wink, before she goes back to taking care of the beach chairs she’s renting for the day – along with sunshades, surfboards and all those other things people forget or just don’t bother to bring.

Emma scoffs loudly, before focusing back on her own job. She texts Ingrid a few minutes later, just checking in like she does every morning, and Ingrid sends back a thumb-up emoji, just like every morning. Their routine is all set – Emma takes care of the shop alone in the morning, then Ingrid joins her in the afternoon when the beach is packed and customers keep coming.

Her morning is quiet, only a few families with kids and people buying fresh water bottles, the usual. It leaves her plenty of time to play on her phone (Mulan showed her how Pokemon Go works and there are tons of them at the beach, Emma’s a big fan) until the afternoon rush. She’s about to take her lunch break, at half past eleven, when someone clear their throat.

She turns around to look at the new customer, and almost drops her phone.

Ruby was right. Holy shit. Emma is far from being the shallow type, but she has to admit the guy is definitely, without a doubt, _hot as fuck_. He rocks the lifeguard’s red swim trunks, sunglasses on top of his head and the kind of tan that is just right, enhancing the blue of his eyes and the brightness of his grin.

“Hi,” Emma finds herself saying, lamely, before she winces and adds, “Can I help you?”

“Yes, just a water bottle, please.”

His accent is definitely British, and Emma remembers Ingrid telling her something about Maureen Jones’ son spending the summer here, all the way from London where he studies. Ingrid knows way too much about the town’s gossips, a second effect of being friends with Granny Lucas, and so Emma knows way too much too because Ingrid likes to share. Which proves itself useful, right now. Emma isn’t sure how useful, but useful enough.

“Yeah, sure. Two dollars.”

She hands him his water bottle and takes his money, looking at him from the corner of her eye even as she enters the sale in the cash register. He unscrews the bottle before taking a long gulp, showing her the expense of his neck, and Emma looks away immediately.

She hates Ruby, basically.

“Thanks,” he tells her.

She mumbles something, but he’s already gone.

He comes back a few hours later, when people start leaving the beach for dinner and Ingrid is closing for the day. Emma tries to ignore him at first, to help her case, but Ingrid elbows her in the ribs without an ounce of shame or regret. When Emma finally turns around, the lifeguard looks – well, impish might be the word. He’s now wearing a t-shirt, and blue shorts, and a tiny, shy smile when he looks at her, scratching his ear and blushing a little. How this guy is the same person as the one who swaggered his way to her shop this morning, Emma has no idea. Not that she minds all that much, come to think about it. It’s more endearing, in a way.

“The scary brunette told me there’s a barbecue at your place tonight, and I’m invited?”

Emma looks away with a curse for Ruby, which of course the guy interprets the wrong way. He makes for excusing himself, or something, but Emma doesn’t leave him the chance. “No that’s okay, she’s – she’s obviously trying to set us up.”

He turns a darkest shade of red immediately, and Ingrid suddenly goes out of her way to pretend she isn’t spying on their conversation. Emma finds the former adorable, and the later frustratingly hilarious.

“Is that a problem?” he asks after a long silence.

It’s so simple, but it says so much about him too – that he would back away if she said no, that his confidence is just a mask, that he’s far more introvert that she would have believed at first. And that, perhaps, he’s interested. She doesn’t know why, but he seems to be, and he looks like one of the good guys. Emma could do with that kind of summer romance, no matter how cliché it sounds.

“No. No, it’s not.” She ignores the way Ingrid bumps her hip with hers, and she adds, “I’m Emma.”

“Killian. Nice to meet you.”

(As it turns out, summer romance is _great_.)

(Even better when it turns in full-year romance.)


	22. Chapter 22

“I need you to date me,” isn’t really something Killian ever thought he would hear coming from Emma Swan, a Friday night, over the phone.

He knows her vaguely, if only because he works with Dorothy, who dates Ruby, who’s Emma best friend. They meet in pubs occasionally, and he might have talked to her one-on-one for a grand total of three times, at best. Hell, he didn’t even know she had his number, up until now, and Killian moves his phone away from his ear to stare at the screen, as if it would help. It doesn’t, of course, so he puts it back against his ear.

“What.”

It doesn’t even sound like a question, that’s how farfetched it is. Like, aye, of course he thought about it, once or twice. She’s a very attractive woman, and she’s feisty, and fun, and he wouldn’t mind dating her. But she also gives him that vibe, like she could punch him and he would thank her, which – while mildly arousing, is terrifying. Impressive, but terrifying.

So he never allowed himself to develop a crush on her, for his own safety. His mother always told him that he falls hard, and something tells him that falling for Emma Swan would only end up in heartbreak. He’s not sure he could survive this, not after Milah.

Emma sighs into the phone, loud and exasperated. “Henry’s father is back into our lives,” she explains, and it’s already too much for Killian. He doesn’t know the story, beside the fact that the lad never met his father and the murderous glares toward men may be related to the whole thing. “He has a fiancée, and she’s so pretty and successful, and they bought a _house_ , and –”

“Swan,” he cuts her off. “Rambling.”

“Yeah, sorry.” She sighs again, softly this time, and he pictures her running a hand through her hair. “I love my job, and my place, and my life, but…”

“You want to brag too,” he finishes for her, finally seeing it her way. “Do you really need a boyfriend for that?”

There’s a pause then, “No. But I told him I’m seeing someone already. You’re the only single guy I know, and I’m not desperate enough to post an ad on CraigList.”

“I’m glad you’d rather pick me, instead of CraigList sociopaths.”

She laughs, small and wavering a little. He told himself never to develop a crush on her, but Killian suddenly finds himself wondering how much of it was a true lack of feelings, and how much was just denial. But, mostly, he wonders how fucked he is, right now, pretending to be a woman’s boyfriend to make her long-lost ex feel inadequate.

“So that’s a yes?”

“That’s not a no.”

 

…

 

As it turns out, and despite Ruby’s warnings, Killian _hates_ Neal’s guts. They all have dinner together the following week-end, because Emma wants Henry to connect with his father but refuses to let her son out of her sight, and Killian tags along as moral support and official boyfriend. Which is awkward, to say the least, but the awkwardness is soon forgotten when Neal turns out to be the biggest prat Killian has ever seen in his life. And Killian grew up in South London; he’s met his lot of prats.

It starts out as a few comments here and there, subtle enough that Killian wouldn’t have noticed if it weren’t for the way Emma stands straighter ever time it happens. Then there’s the fighting over allowing Henry to have a second slice of cake (“Come on, Ems, he’s just a kid, let him live!”) and the judging her flat (a lovely place Mary Margaret decorated for her) and her job (the most badass ever). Killian knows the signs of emotional abuse, has seen all of them in the way his father used to treat his mother when he was three sheets to the wind. All the signs that Neal is showing right now, smiling at Emma like a wanker and pretending everything is fine. Which, it isn’t.

He’s making some small talk with Tamara – bright, lovely woman, deserves far better than her current fiancé – when Emma grabs all the plates and goes to the kitchen. Obviously, Neal follows, and Killian only half-listens to Tamara’s words about their last travel to Thailand when voices are rising up in the kitchen. He shares a glance with Henry (who has been taking it all his stride, bless his soul) before nodding to the lad as he stands up.

He pushing the door to the kitchen, when he hears, “You could do better than this, Ems.”

Killian’s blood runs cold, even more so when Emma replies, “I would have if you hadn’t left me to rot in jail when I was sixteen.”

The guy scoffs – actually scoffs in Emma’s face, dismissive and rude – and that’s enough for Killian, who enters the kitchen, ready to smack the other man. Emma stares at him immediately, guessing his thoughts if the way she shakes her head and puts her hand on his arm is anything to go by. Her face looks exhausted, her eyes heartbroken, so unlike the woman he knows – like she’s accepting everything Neal throws at her face, like she thinks she deserves it for some reason.

“Problem, mate?” he asks, with enough of a threat in his voice to show how serious he is.

“That’s none of your business, _mate_ ,” Neal replies, mocking.

“It is my business when you’re insulting my girlfriend in front of me. She’s done far more than you would ever imagine, and you have no right judging her when you couldn’t even bother to be a father in the first place. So I suggest you bugger off, before things get ugly.”

Neal scoffs again, before focusing back on Emma. “Where did you find him? Downtown Abbey?”

The slap flies before even Killian has time to see it coming, loud and red against Neal’s cheek. Killian can’t help but whistle, impressed, and Emma sends him a warning glance that he takes at face value, backing away a little.

“Do not insult me, my life, or my boyfriend ever again,” she hisses. “And if you want to see Henry again, you better leave now and only come back when you’re ready to apologise.” The man goes for a reply, but Emma doesn’t give him the luxury. “Get out of my home now.”

 

…

 

It’s a couple more hours before Emma manages to explain the situation to Henry before putting him to bed, and then some while longer for Killian and her to do the dishes. In silence, not uncomfortable but not entirely peaceful either. There is still tension in her neck, and she squares her jaw a little too much for things to be alright, but Killian doesn’t blame her. It was a lot.

She grabs a bottle of rum and two glasses, before going back to the living room, and Killian follows, sits next to her on the couch. She pours him a glass, then a more generous one for herself, and Killian hides a smile behind a sip.

“Thank you,” she tells him, soft and vulnerable.

He doesn’t know what to reply at first, so he settles for, “What a rightful prick” that somewhat manages to make her laugh a little. Just a little, sad and nervous, but Killian takes it as a win anyway. Nobody should ever be allowed to make her sad, let alone heartbroken like that, and – maybe he wouldn’t mind being the one who makes her happy, instead. God knows she deserves and needs it.

“Nobody – nobody ever stood up to me before. I don’t know what to…” Her throat works around empty words, before she shakes her head a little, unable to finish. She doesn’t need to, for Killian to understand what she means.

Aye, he wants to spend the rest of his life making sure she never feels inadequate ever again. She deserves the world, and people who appreciate her for her, and – Killian won’t pretend he is worthy of her, but he can try. He wants to try so hard.

“The worst part is, he’s too far up his own arse to even realise what he is missing out.”

She laughs again, but a breathless giggle this time, one that means she doesn’t believe him. Still, she meets his eyes, hers soft and vulnerable. “You’re not so bad, for a fake boyfriend.”

And it’s now or never, he guesses, wetting his lips before he replies, “And for the additional cost of zero dollars, I could be a not so bad real boyfriend too.”

She grins a little, double dimples in her cheeks. She grins, open yet terrified, and kisses him. Her hand on his neck as he pulls her to him, gentle, delicate.

Aye, he will show her, what she’s worth.


	23. Chapter 23

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm now taking commissions. If you are interested in helping me out, please check [this right here](http://elevenjaneives.tumblr.com/post/150547388207/writing-commissions) to know how it works. Thanks!

They weren't made to be. They weren't in the same mind space, in the same place in life for it to work. Henry had just learnt to walk, his tentative steps matching that of her relationship with Killian; he wasn't ready to be a stepdad, not yet. The commitment was too big and scary, and she couldn't blame him for it, couldn't expect him to pick Neal’s broken pieces and put them back together, make it work in a way that would never ever work. She never asked so much of him.

It lasted two weeks – one official date, a movie night at his place and a Saturday at the park – before they decided to stop there. There was no point. She was busy with being a mom, and her law degree; he spent hours on his history lectures and wanted to party. The breakup was easy. Too easy, perhaps. Maybe they needed an argument, ugly and hateful, to go their separate ways. A clean cut, to be officially done with each other.

As it turns out, ‘just friends’ worked for them. Ruby told her she was crazy, torturing herself with this friendship of his. Ruby didn't understand that he had been her best friend first, and that’s what he would remain – that the bond of two orphans growing next door to each other couldn't be tainted by a few days of foolishness.

And then there was Milah.

Beautiful, perfect Milah with her warm smiles and careful eyes, with the way she ran her fingers through Killian’s hair and made him grin more than anyone else. Emma wasn’t jealous of Milah, per se. But she was jealous of what Milah had with Killian, and how comfortable she was in their relationship, how easy she made it look. It had never felt easy for Emma, like she was just pretending to be someone she wasn't, playing the part of the perfect girlfriend and hoping nobody would call her out on her bullshit.

There was Milah, and then there was Walsh, and it wasn't any easier for her. Hell, it was harder, learning to know him, pretending to care. All of her friends, she knew since high school. All of them had seen at her worse, full belly that made her cranky and led to too many an argument. All of them knew her at her best, wide smiles and loud laughs, singing Disney songs at the top of her lungs with an equally drunk Elsa by her side.

Walsh didn't know her at all.

Didn't try to know her, or Henry.

Didn't try at all.

It was unfair, to compare him to Killian, because Killian had barely been a boyfriend at all. It was that ideal of Killian, the one she could have dated if the stars had aligned, if the Fates hadn't decided otherwise. But Emma kept comparing, and found Walsh wanting. Until he decided to propose, out of the blue, and she freaked out on him. Running away seemed like the safest solution, the way she'd done so many time before Ingrid, the way she'd done after Neal.

And here she is now. With a ‘told you so’ on Ruby’s red lips as her friend makes her a hot chocolate, the kind she spikes with whiskey just to get through the day. Dorothy smiles at her, kind, understanding, but Emma can't see past their perfect wedding, past the honeymoon phase that just won't go away. They are lucky like that, disgustingly so. And Emma finds herself jealous all over again, just like with Milah, just like everyone else. She wonders, sometimes, if one day she'll just settle to forget about her loneliness, to go to sleep at night with a warm body next to her – she can trick herself into falling in love if she tries long enough, right?

“You’re one sad karaoke song from hitting rock bottom.”

He sits next to her, his playful grin doing nothing to hide the concern in his eyes. Ruby pours him his usual – coffee, black, no sugar and no milk – before she moves to another patron with a roll of her eyes. Emma just ignores her, and smiles at Killian, that exhausted smile of hers.

“At least there’s alcohol with karaoke,” she tells him lightly, and his grin widens.

Which is how she finds herself at that little Chinese restaurant they were frequenting as students, with greasy food and cheap alcohol and a stage for karaoke at the back. It tastes terrible – both the food and the alcohol – and sounds even worse, but she forgets about Walsh and about that heartbreak that just won’t come. She forgets she’s supposed to be sad, to cry – she forgets everything when she’s too busy choking on her own laughter at Killian’s poor rendition of a Spice Girls song.

(He’s Posh Spice, he tells her proudly, and Emma laughs even more.)

When she gets home that night, Henry raises an unimpressed eyebrow at the red high on her cheeks and her laboured breaths. He doesn’t comment, lets her grab the second controller and play Diablo with him, but Emma notices the way he glances at her from the corner of his eye. The way he wants to ask, but doesn’t.

“You look different,” Ingrid states during the middle of Sunday lunch. She made her usual chicken with potatoes, and Emma nearly strangles herself with a piece of chicken breast.

“What do you mean?” she asks, clueless.

“Just… Different. Happier.”

Emma doesn’t want to think about Killian texting her more than usual, how their conversations can go on for hours until she realises it’s two in the morning and she has to wake up at six for Henry’s fencing practice. Or about the way he called her last night, just because he finally got that guitar riff of that song right and wanted to share. Or about how Milah and he broke out four months ago, and how she’s already past Walsh.

She doesn’t want to think about it all, but does anyway. It’s the only thing on her mind lately, and she doesn’t know what to think of it – what it can mean, for her, for him. For them. So she shrugs, and makes a joke about celibacy that falls flat. Henry stares at her, eyebrow raised. He knows. Everybody knows, at this point.

It takes another two months. Leo’s birthday is in the spring, the perfect excuse for the first barbecue of the year at the Blanchards’ – the perfect excuse for David and Killian to be manly men about fire and cooking, with Lancelot and Robin laughing their asses off and offering useless comments, beer in hand. Roland shoves an entire pack of chips down his throat while his parents are otherwise busy, and Henry pretends he isn’t doing exactly the same thing. Emma shakes her head at everyone’s antics, and shares a knowing look with Marian and Gwen.

She grabs the (now empty) bowl and goes back to the kitchen to fill it again, knowing fully well the chips will disappear again in five minutes. Killian is there when she enters the room, staring down at the content of the fridge.

“You know you can use the AC, right?”

“What would be the fun in that?” he replies as he turns around, proudly holding the bottle of ketchup. He smiles at her, dimples in his cheeks, before his eyes travel down her body. They linger on her breasts, barely concealed by the light fabric of her summer dress, then her bare legs. Emma forces herself not to fidget under his appreciative gaze.

She doesn’t stop him when he moves closer. His hand finds her hip, the prosthetic cold against her skin despite the hot temperatures, while his fingers play with her hair. Her lips part in a silent gasp, and she waits for what is next to come. Her mind buzzes her little, and so does her body where he is touching her, delicate and tentative.

“Do you ever think about it?” he asks in a whisper. “Us?”

She can’t find the word, they die on her tongue – so she nods instead, and moves closer still. A soft smile curves up his lips, before he nudges her nose with his and closes his eyes.

“We weren’t ready,” she tells him, a fact.

“Are we now?”

She doesn’t reply. Instead her hand settles on his neck, fingers brushing against the five-o’clock shadow on his cheek. His breath catches in his throat when she leans forward and brushes her lips against his mouth, just a caress at first. But then she grabs his collar, and he wraps his arms around her waist, and the kiss deepens with a sigh from her mouth to his. Teeth and tongue and lips, with the desperation of years wasted away, with the hunger of things to come. She missed his kisses, she realises now. She missed him, all of him.

“Finally,” he mutters against her mouth when they break away for air.

She only grins.

Finally, indeed.


	24. Chapter 24

David gets the call when he’s patrolling – just driving around town because he’s bored to death and somewhat hopeful something, anything, will happen in front of him and the afternoon will get slightly more interesting. The afternoon does get more interesting, but not in the way David expected. Instead, Graham radios in with a simple ‘The school called again,’ a laugh in his voice, and David groans as he turns around in front of Moe French’s flower shop. The school is only a five-minute drive from where he is, but that’s enough time for David to run all the possible scenarios in his head.

Emma came to live with him six months ago, four of them spent at Storybrooke High. Four months of regular meetings with exasperate teachers and calls from a tired yet understanding principal. He knew Emma was a difficult child, when he took her in – not a malicious one, but just skittish enough for it to be problematic, and in exactly the right age to get into trouble only to test his authority. Or his patience. Or his will to keep her with him, according to the woman from social services.

When he finds her sitting in front of the principal’s office, Maureen’s kid is sitting next to her, tissue red with blood and pressed against his nose. David wants to facepalm here and there. She’s been complaining about that Jones kid for weeks now, so much so that Graham started joking about hair-pulling and crushes, and David is not ready for this. She’s fifteen, he knew it would happen but – he’s too young to go through that kind of things, really.

“Emma, what the hell?”

She looks up at him, her expression so far from apologetic David wants to facepalm again. She’s almost defiant, like she’s daring him to reprimand her for breaking the boy’s nose, and. Okay, David has always been about listening to both sides of a story before drawing conclusions, especially when it comes to fight. But those scenarios usually involve Leroy, the White Rabbit, and more alcohol than anyone should ever been drinking. Not moody teenagers with an attitude.

“Mr Nolan,” the principal says when she opens the door to her office, and David tries really hard not to blush on the spot when his eyes meet hers.

He married Kathryn so young, and then spent a few years in a weird limbo after the divorce, and he has no idea how to deal with petite pixie-haired women. Emma smirks, just a little, knowing and mocking, and David tries his hardest not to react, even if she has a point. No parent should be that excited to meet the principal, especially when their kid broke another kid’s nose, but here he is. Heart eyes and everything, when the situation doesn’t call for it. At all.

“Ms Blanchard,” he all but sighs, trying to find his composure. “I would ask what happened but, clearly…”

“It’s just a nosebleed,” the Jones kid replies in a mumble, mouth full of blood.

David forces himself not to make a face, either at the kid’s sentence or at Emma’s smug face – they are way beyond ‘proud of herself’ at this point. He really does hope the kid deserved it. He has no idea what he’s going to do with her if the kid didn’t deserve it.

“I could disregard the incident,” the principal explains, “but Emma refuses to apologize and…”

She doesn’t get to finish her sentence before both teenagers start speaking at the same time, louder and louder until it becomes noises instead of words, and David has to put his fingers to his mouth in a sharp whistle for them to stop.

He points his finger at Emma. “Explain.”

She raises her head, chin as up as possible. “Jones was being annoying and I told him to stop. He kept going. It told him I was going to punch him if he didn’t stop. He said I would never have the guts to punch him. I proved him wrong.”

Facepalm, act three. David doesn’t do it, per se, but he does pinch the bridge of his nose with two fingers, looking sideway at the principal still standing next to her. In any other universe, he would have found the courage to ask her on a date. But now he’s ‘the single father with the difficult adopted daughter’ and all his chances jumped out the window at the first phone call from school.

“Emma, kid, just apologize to Killian,” he tells her with the exhausted voice of someone who has seen way too much already.

“Actually, sir…” David turns to look at Killian, and the boy falters a little. “Sheriff, sir, she proved me wrong. She doesn’t have to apologize.”

David can’t choose between bewilderment and laughing out loud. His lips twitch, just a little bit, before he remembers it would send the wrong message to Emma, and Killian, and Ms Blanchard. So he puts his hands on his hips, the signature Sheriff posture according to Graham, and just stares down at the both of them for long seconds. Emma finally looks down, playing with the hem of her shirt.

“Can you two stop acting like children now?” he asks, rhetorically.

“Detention on Saturday for both,” the principal adds.

She glances at David, just enough for it to be qualified as ‘lingering,’ before she goes back to her office. He finds himself staring at the door for a second too long, while behind his back Killian explains to Emma that her thumb needs to be on the outside of her fist when she punches. David snickers under his breath, and smiles.

“Okay kid, let’s go home.”

Her eyes are big and surprised when she looks back at him, Killian’s hand around her as he shows her the right way to throw a punch, and David reminds himself that she never was in such an understanding household before. That she was just a meal ticket for a lot of families, and that she still isn’t used to mattering to someone. He doesn’t know how to tell her how much she matters to him, or even to the boy sitting next to her.

“Okay…” she says softly, before grabbing her bag. She takes a few steps before she looks above her shoulder and adds a simple, “Bye Killian.”

He replies by an even simpler, “See you tomorrow.”

David rolls his eyes.

They’re both silent on the walk to the car, and then on the ride back to the station. She’s used to coming there after school anyway, to do her homework and challenge Graham at a game of darts. Right now she’s looking out the window, pouting a little. David waits a few more seconds, then…

“You could just ask him on a date.”

“Oh my god,” she says, like she wants the ground to swallow her whole. When he glances at her, she’s still staring outside, but her cheeks are now a beautiful shade of red. “Shut up.”

“I’m just saying, you punched the kid and he almost apologized to you. That is some new level of dedication.”

She doesn’t reply, but he can see her mulling his words, her pout turning into nervously nibbling on her bottom lip. She doesn’t reply, but once they’re at the station, she waits for him to go to the archive room to grab the phone on his desk.

(The kid says yes, unsurprisingly.)


	25. Chapter 25

It’s the talk of the entire staff room. Usually, Emma isn’t one for gossiping – Ariel, the primary school teacher, and Belle, the librarian, are better at it than Emma will ever be. Even Ruby and Mulan are into that thing, and Mary Margaret – _the school’s principal herself_ – indulges in gossiping once in a while. Probably a secondary effect of having a staff mostly made of women, Emma ponders as she listens to them sharing the juiciest rumours about this parent and that family. It helps forgetting how stressful their jobs can be, after all, so Emma doesn’t blame them.

She usually stays away from it, especially since she’s the school councillor and knows more than everybody else about the students’ personal lives, but – gosh, the latest gossip is on _everybody_ ’s lips.

Single fathers are always a target, if only because they are single fathers. But, in Ruby’s words, this one is ‘so hot you could fry eggs on his abs’ and, yes, it has Emma a little curious. Especially after two weeks of the other women talking about it while she’s yet to see this apparently fine specimen of a man with her own two eyes. It’s just for science, okay? Emma wants to know if this man lives up to the gossips following him around school.

Emma knows him, kind of, through Roland’s file – he’s not Roland’s father but still family, having gotten custody of the child when the father died in a tragic accident, a few years after the mother suffered the same fate. Moved from London to quirky little Storybrooke, Maine, in hope of a few start. Roland doesn’t seem miserable, from what Emma saw during their one and only session together, if a little shy and not that talkative. But Emma knows all too well that grief is a complicated thing.

“Are we talking hotter than Graham here?” she asks one day, smiling in her cup of hot cocoa.

Every year, the fifth graders go camping for an entire week in the woods, and Graham so happens to be the local forest ranger. He’s a piece of eye candy, if Emma says so herself, and a real gentleman – perhaps she would have said yes to a date last year when she went to camp with the kids, in an alternate universe where her life wasn’t such a mess. But Neal was back in her life then, and Henry going through puberty, and everything was complicated.

“Oh, way hotter,” Gwen confirms.

Gwen, who’s so happily married to Lancelot no other man matters, thinks the guy is hot. If that doesn’t say a lot, nothing ever will. So, yeah, Emma is curious, the same way she was curious about how apparently little Grace from grade 7 can lick her elbows – it crosses her mind when other people talk about it, but she doesn’t go out of her way to find the truth. Emma has better things to do that to track down elbow-lickers, or handsome legal guardians, thank you very much.

For a starter, Nicholas and Ava still don’t have lunch boxes, and Emma wonders when exactly she’s supposed to do something about it. Then there’s the problem of Henry missing that one history class every week to kiss Violet under the bleachers (!!!). Not to mention Ingrid, who’s finally coming back from Norway, so the house has to be ready. So, yeah, Emma has other things on her mind.

With November comes the yearly Miner’s Day Festival, and of course David and Mary Margaret manage to convince Emma to help them out. Selling candles in the cold isn’t exactly her idea of a fun Saturday afternoon, but the Blanchards have this way about them that makes it impossible for Emma to say no when they ask something. A great power that they don’t use too loosely, thankfully.

Uneasiness creeps its way between her shoulder blades in a cold shiver when she first has to make small talk with people, as always. It stays that way for an hour or so, before Granny brings them all hot cocoa – hers is spiked, of course – and teases them about the candles. She buys three of them, though, and winks Emma’s way before she goes back to her own booth. The warm pies smell heavenly, and Granny will sell them all out before the sun has set. There is a routine to the Miner’s Day Festival, after all, the familiarity of it both soothing and creepy in its own way – but that’s the thing about little towns like Storybrooke, after all.

Emma sips on her hot cocoa, keeping an eye on Henry even if she promised to let him be – he’s on a date with Violet, of course, and Emma feels old just looking at them walking hand in hand. Her little boy is almost a man now, only a few years shy of leaving for college, and Emma doesn’t know how to cope with that. Sometimes she thinks about how empty and silent the house will be, once he’s gone, and loneliness creeps upon her.

“Emma!”

The call of her name startles Emma, hot cocoa sloshing and burning her fingers. She swallows down a curse as she turns around, eyes traveling down to meet brown ones, along with a dimpled smile. Roland’s face is half-hidden by the beanie he’s wearing, but it doesn’t stop him from beaming up at her with all the happiness of the world.

“Hey, kiddo!”

His gloved hand holds on to an adult one, and Emma’s eyes travel up slowly – hand, arm, disturbingly muscled shoulder – before they settle on the man’s face. She remembers Ruby’s words (“I would climb him like Mount Everest, Ems,” to which Emma had kindly reminded her that she was married) and finds them lacking. Because nothing could have prepared Emma for the blue of his eyes, the dimples in his cheeks, the way his hair flops on his forehead. Nothing could have prepared her for the way he smiles at her, almost shy and tentative, when their eyes meet. Nothing could have prepared her for the scar on his cheek or the expense of skin revealed by the collar of his loose shirt.

He’s not hot.

He’s way more than that.

Emma finds herself swallowing around her dry throat, at loss for words. She likes to think herself above those kinds of things, likes to believe she isn’t a blushing schoolgirl anymore and that she cares about more than just looks but – but that man looks so. _So_.

“Hi,” she finds herself croaking, before she clears her throat a little. “I’m Emma Swan, from school.”

Understanding flashes through his eyes, a small ‘ah’ on his lips as he nods at her. “Roland told me about you. Killian Jones, nice to meet you.”

He holds his hand for her to shake, and Emma does so – his fingers are callused, his skin warm, and she curses herself at the thought that she never wants to let go of him ever again. What is she, a horny teenager meeting a boy for the first time? Worse, even, because she damn sure didn’t feel that pathetic when she was a teenager.

“Uncle, look at the candles!”

Roland tugs on his hand, pointing to a red one. Mary Margaret takes it as her cue to step in, gushing about the candles and what a good deed it would be to buy one. Emma manages to step back then, with a sigh on her lips. She meets David’s eyes, and he raises a very unimpressed eyebrow at her, like the almost big brother he is. She rolls her eyes, even if she really doesn’t feel like fighting him on this. He most definitely is right.

She downs her hot chocolate when her phone buzzes in her pocket. It’s a text from Ruby, nothing but a winking emoji poking its tongue at her, and Emma glares in the general direction of Granny’s booth in reply. Her friends really are not helping matter be.

Killian Jones offers her one last glance when he leaves their booth, and Emma forces herself to focus on Roland waving goodbye instead – it’s easier than his too hopeful eyes, or Mary Margaret’s insistent glare, or David snorting into his coffee. Focus on the child, Emma.

Focus on what you know.

It’s another couple of hour before night settles in Storybrooke, before Mary Margaret decides that they made enough money for the year. Emma wraps her scarf around her neck, beanie on her head, before she leaves her friends to try and find her son instead. He must be around there somewhere, sharing a milkshake with Violet or doing something equally adorable. But, after a few minutes of walking around, Henry is nowhere to be seen.

Emma turns around, only to find herself facing a now familiar face. Killian Jones smiles at her, looking equally startled to find her in front of him. He wears a scarf too, but his ears and nose are red with the cold of the night, his bare fingers wrapped around a mug of hot cider.

“Hello again,” he tells her, words rolling on his tongue in a soft accent. “Fancy a drink?”

She should say no, should go find Henry, give him a curfew and go back home. It’s been a long day, exhaustion crawling through her bones. But Killian looks at her the way nobody ever has before, soft and tentative and almost awestruck. Neal never looked at her like that – like she is something precious, beautiful.

Nobody ever looked at her like that.

So she finds herself sharing a drink with him, and a few laughs too. He’s effortlessly funny, teasing her and grinning proudly at her every time he gets a laugh out of her. He tells her about growing up in London, and she tells him about what it’s like to live your teenage years in such a small town. He admits he’s an orphan – she explains the situation with Ingrid.

Emma finally decides to text Henry instead – telling him that she’s going home and he can do the same at one in the morning, and be quiet when he does so – before she accepts Killian’s offer to walk her home. Roland has gone to spend the night with Belle and little Gideon, who’s the same age.

They are quiet on the way back to her place, the festival only a murmur of songs and laughter in the distance. Emma licks her lips, at loss for words – she’s never been comfortable with small talk, and with her own emotions. A mix of the two is more effective than Kryptonite on her.

“How’s Roland doing?” he asks after one more minute of silence.

Emma smiles. “Good. Gwen says he’s making friends in her class, and he’s a bright kid.”

“Good, good.” She glances at him, at the way he smiles to himself, a little sad. “I don’t know how to talk to him about – everything. He doesn’t talk much, and – I don’t know how to help him.”

“Let him take the first step. If he wants to talk, he will talk. Just give him time.”

“Thank you.”

His smile is sincere as he stares at her. They both stop walking, and Emma stares back. He takes a step closer, her mouth opening slightly as he does so. For a moment, Emma believes he’s going to lean forward and kiss her, and – she’s ready for it, her heart racing against her ribcage. But he just tugs on her beanie a little, so it falls on her ears the right way, and she offers him a snort in reply.

“You’re welcome,” she whispers back.

She should start walking again – it’s cold out there, and late, and she’s tired. She should, but she doesn’t want to. Not when Killian still looks at her like that, like he actually sees something in her. So she is the only leaning forward and into his space. His breath is hot against her face before it gets caught in his throat, making her smirk a little.

His lips are cold at first, and so is his nose when it brushes against her cheek, but Emma’s heart is still racing and his arms wrap around her and suddenly all she can feel is the warmth of him. The warmth of his mouth against hers, of his puffs of breath on her cheek, of his body pressed to hers, of his hand when it sneaks beneath her jacket. He’s fire turned man, in that furnace of a kiss that leaves her breathless and craving for more.

“That was…”

He’s at lost for words and so is she, breathing him in, forcing herself not to ravish his mouth once more. His lips are pink and swollen, his cheeks burning, and Emma finds herself proud – knowing she’s the cause of his distress, knowing she’s the one who wrecked him. She’s wrecked too, with just one kiss.

“I…” she starts. Licks her lips. “I don’t usually do this.”

“Do what, love?”

As an answer, she kisses him again, his lips pliant against hers, his groan deep in his throat when he pulls her even closer than she already was.

Henry tiptoes to his room at 2am.

Killian sneaks out at 8am.


	26. Chapter 26

Emma is doodling in the margins of her textbook, Mr Hooper’s voice drawling in the background as he talks about the American Revolution, when Ruby sent a sharp elbow to her ribs. Emma startles, her pencil drawing a sharp line on the paper, before she glares at her best friend. Ruby only smiles back, the face of an angel frame by the horn of the devil, as she lightly taps Emma’s arm with a folded piece of paper.

“What.”

It’s less of a question and more of a ‘leave me alone, Ruby’ but her best friend has never been really good at reading between the lines. Or at knowing when to stop. Which is good, more often than not – Emma tried to push Ruby away so many times when she moved to Storybrooke, but the brunette was stubborn enough not to let it deter her.  She forced her friendship onto Emma until she had no other choice but to accept it and, looking back, Emma is grateful for it. Nobody ever fought that hard for her company, before.

“Give this to Mulan.” Then, when Emma raises a pointed eyebrow, “ _Please_?”

Emma snatches the piece of paper from Ruby’s hand, if only to open it herself first. Ruby’s loopy handwriting, in a gelly pink pen, stares back at her. ‘Want to be my Valentine?’ followed by a ‘yes’ and a ‘hell yes’ boxes to tick. Emma rolls her eyes.

“What are you? Nine?”

“Just…” Ruby hushes her. “Just send it to her, okay?”

“Put it in her locker.”

Ruby grits her teeth. “Do it, Emma Swan.”

“Don’t full-name me,” she replies, even as she folds the paper again. A little tighter this time and, after making sure Mr Hooper is still nose-deep in his history book instead of looking at them, Emma turns around in her chair. One eye closed, tongue poking out, she takes her time to aim at Mulan’s table, halfway across the room.

There is no way she is asking anyone to pass down the note, on the off chance than one of them will do what she just did. Ruby has never been shy about her sexuality – both by claiming loud and proud that she is bisexual, and dating Peter, then Belle, then Billy – but she probably wouldn’t want people to read the kind of notes she sends. Heart on the ‘i’ and everything. It’s kinda private, and Emma respects that.

So she aims, and throws and –

– And the note falls on Killian’s desk.

Emma and Ruby both gasp at the same time, frozen on the spot with their mouths wild open as if some kind of overacting actresses. Emma’s mouth slams shut when Killian turns to look at her, paper in his hand and smile on his lips when he notices her staring back. It doesn’t quite happen in slow motion, but Emma has enough of a flair for the dramatics at that point to imagine it that way, each second turning into minutes when she watches in horror as Killian opens and reads the note.

He offers her a second glance then, and no amount of Ruby whisper-yelling ‘Give it to Mulan, give it to _Mulan_ , you _stupid Brit_ ’ seem to reach him. What reaches him alright, though, is the blush that is suddenly slapped on his neck and the points of his ears. His smile turns a little shyer for a moment, before blossoming into a smirk, and he shakes his head at her before sending her a wink, then focusing back on taking notes.

Ruby holds her arms in front of her in what can only be described as a ‘what the fuck?!’ motion. “What – what just happened?”

“I don’t…”

“What…”

Emma folds her arms on the table before hiding her face, while Ruby keeps spluttering nonsense for two more minutes. Even hidden from view, Emma can’t stop the blush of embarrassment that creeps up her neck and cheeks. She’s always been the invisible girl – Ruby’s quiet, frowning, belligerent best friend, the one you’re happy not to talk to. She likes not having friends. She very much loves not being the centre of the attention. The less, the merrier.

Except now she’s right in the centre of _Killian Jones_ ’ attention, of all people. Storybrooke’s own bad boy with a heart of gold, or so they say – Emma never kept track of all the rumours about him, beside the one where he has a girlfriend in college and the one about how his father murdered his mother before running away. She’s certain the second one is fake; she doesn’t care about the first.

The bell cannot come soon enough, and so Emma has to sit through another twenty minutes of Mr Hooper waxing poetry about Thomas I’m-a-racist-Hamilton-was-right-to-hate-me Jefferson before she is able to make a run to the door. She purposefully doesn’t look behind her as she dashes to her next lesson – maybe by the time they have a break, Killian will have forgotten all about it? Like a goldfish swimming around in its tank, forgetting everything after ten seconds?

But goldfish don’t forget and neither does Killian, and he scares the living hell out of Emma by leaning against the locker next to hers during lunch break. She closes her eyes for a moment and swallows the knot around her throat. She promised herself, after Ingrid adopted her, that she would never run away again – but it’s deeply rooted into her bones now, this itch to just escape and protect herself when things become too hard, when she has no idea how to handle her own feelings like a real human being.

Killian looks like Heath Ledger straight out of a teen movie, arms folded on his chest as he grins at her, and Emma curses her heart for the wait it beats furiously against her ribcage. She broke Graham’s heart last year, when he asked her for prom and she refused, but. But she can’t do this. She can’t just let herself take the leap of faith those kinds of things require, not when she could end up being the one with the broken heart.

She’s not strong enough for that.

Her heart is broken enough as it is.

“I know the note wasn’t for you, I gave it to Mulan after the class,” he says at last, surprising her. “The pink hearts were a clue. The fact that you hate me was a dead giveaway.”

She blinks at him, speechless for a moment before she finds her footing again. “I don’t hate you,” she replies, grabbing her maths textbook to shove it into her backpack.

He presses one hand to his heart, swaying a little on the spot. “You do have a way to make a lad feel special, love.”

She tries to glare at him, nothing but a murderous side-glance, but he’s still grinning at her like a moron – soft and fond and all too charming of his own good (or hers) – and Emma doesn’t know how to act around him anymore. He’s never – he’s not a friend. They worked on a science project together last year, and made quite the team, but they’ve never talked outside of the labs, never really bothered learning anything about each other.

What she knows of him, she learnt through the grapevine. Whatever he knows about her probably comes from Ruby, who has the bad habit of painting Emma in a more flattering light that she deserves.

“Don’t take it personally,” is all she finds to say.

His smirk turns into a smile, less cocky, more gentle – it changes his face entirely, giving Emma a glimpse into the real Killian instead of the one everybody always talks about. Like he’s a whole different person when he’s not playing games and wearing masks. Emma knows a thing or two about that.

“I will if you say no to a date.” She raises an eyebrow. “Not today. Friday, maybe?”

She saw it coming – from miles away, even – but it doesn’t stop the way his question punches her in the stomach and makes her want to run all over again. She turns her head toward the squad, as if looking for a way out, only to find Ruby and Mulan standing not too far away. They are holding hands, whispering to each other with little smiles and laughs. They make it look so easy, the flirting and the opening up to someone and the everything, that Emma can’t help but feel jealous.

“I’m not… I don’t…”

“It’s just a movie, Swan.” She focuses back on his face, on his easy smile and the hope in his eyes. “It won’t even be romantic, like John Wick or something.”

She bites down a smile for the first time, even as she turns to face her locker once more. She grabs her maths notebook, and her English text book, before she slams the locker close. With a deep sigh, she braces herself, then faces Killian again.

“Batman Lego Movie sounds fine.”

His grin comes back with a vengeance.

 

…

 

(She can’t remember for the life of her what the story was actually about, because Killian keeps whispering jokes into her ear until she chokes on a popcorn and throws a handful at his face. He grins at her like he just won the lottery, and refuses to shup up until she kisses him so he will stop.

She keeps kissing him, and kissing him, and thanks her shitty aim.)


	27. tonight we're drinking straight from the bottle

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lin-Manuel Miranda is a genius and I'm stealing everything from him
> 
> (In The Heights - Champagne)

Granny’s is almost plunged into darkness by the time Emma reaches the dinner, only one light switched on behind the counter, all the chairs on the tables for the night. Even from outside, she can see Killian behind the counter, cleaning some glasses. Her fingers tighten behind her back before, with a deep sigh, she opens the door. The bell sings happily above her head, Killian’s eyes meeting hers across the room. Emma’s heart beats faster as she forces a smile on her lips, one she hopes not to be too forced nor too fake.

“I got you a present,” she tells him as she makes her way toward the counter, careful to always keep her back to him. The words feel like ash on her tongue, but she doesn’t let that deter her. “Doing anything tonight?”

He puts the glass he was wiping down, before showing the counter to her with both hand and prosthetic. “Cleaning,” he tells her, as if it is the most obvious thing in the world. And it is. Ever since Ruby quit and took off to Kansas with Dorothy, Killian has been the one in charge of closing shop every night; cleaning and tidying up and making sure everything is in its place. Granny is too old for this, or so she says, but they all know it’s only an excuse so she can pay Killian a little bit more without turning it into a pity party.

Emma shakes her head at his answer, leaning one elbow on the counter while her other arm is still behind her back. “No, you’re done.”

Killian scoffs at her. “No way.”

“Cause we’ve got a date.”

His head snaps up, glasses and dish towel forgotten. “Okay.”

Emma’s little smirk turns into a full grin when he rounds around the counter and comes to face her, and when she proudly brandishes the bottle of champagne in front of him. The bet is so old she can’t even remember what sparked it -- another sleepless night spent side by side on the roof of her house, gazing at the stars and talking to each other in soft whispers. They’ve always wanted out of Storybrooke, out of this small town life where they were doomed to stay forever, him taking over his mother’s shop eventually, her working on the family farm or at Every Given Sundaes, or something equally as unfulfilling.

A bottle of champagne to the first one to make it out and make something of themselves, that was the deal. And when Emma got Henry, seventeen and panicking and so afraid her parents would kick her out, she knew the champagne would never be hers. Even now, saving for the security deposit of a small flat in Boston, she still has a long way to go.

“Bloody hell, Emma.” He takes the bottle from her, staring at it like it holds all the answers to the universe inside its green glass. She had to drive all the way to Rockland to buy it, because the local liquor store didn’t have any, and the guy looked at her like she’d gone crazy when she asked if he could order one for her.

“You deserve it,” she tells him around a grin that feels as fake as she is heart-broken. She tries not to show it; she has no idea if it actually works. “Accepted to King’s College and everything.”

The letter arrived last week -- he told his mother before running to Emma, brandishing the letter with the biggest grin she had ever seen on his face. His dimples seemed to be mocking him then, daring her to be happy for him when she realised he was leaving. For good. Traveling to a whole different country for his Master’s Degree, then probably a doctorate, and before she knew it he would become an important professor in London, all memories of the American girl he grew up with long forgotten.

She is happy for him. Devastated for herself.

“I’m so proud of you,” she tells him now. A truth hiding so many lies.

His grin doesn’t waver even as he lunges over the counter to grab two of the glasses he was cleaning. They tinkle a little when he drops them in front of her, proud, before he tucks the bottle of champagne under his arm to open it. Emma smiles at him, how eager he is, and this time it doesn’t feel so fake anymore. He’s always managed to make her feel at ease, comfortable around him in a way she isn’t with a lot of people -- save maybe Elsa or Leo, but one is her brother and the other her almost sister, so.

She turns around at the thought of Leo, focuses on the napkin dispenser in front of her. She toys with one of the paper napkins, musters all the courage she can find within herself to go on. She practiced her speech. She can do it.

“Granny told me about what you did for Leo,” she starts, still not looking at him. She didn’t believe it at first, even though there was no point in Granny lying. That he would use his high school reputation -- too much anger, from discovering his deadbeat father now had a lovely family of his own, that turned into either fucking you under the bleachers or fucking you up on top of them -- just to make sure Leo and Gideon could go together to prom without risking for their lives. That he would do so in such a way that nobody had heard about it beside the few homophobic teenagers now shitting their pants.

Leo has always looked up to Killian, for as long as Emma can remember. He almost burst into tears when she told him, and she wanted to cry too because soon Killian will leave them both behind.

The napkin turns into little flakes of paper in her hands, and she goes on. “It’s seriously the sweetest thing anyone has ever done for Leo. I don’t know how to thank you for it, it just means so much to him and -- Killian?”

He’s been awful quiet, which never happens. When she turns to look at him, he’s still struggling to open the damn bottle, staring up at her with widened eyes. Emma isn’t even sure he heard a single word she said, moving closer to him to check on the bottle and on him.

“How do you open this bloody thing?” he asks, more to himself than to her.

Emma makes for taking the bottle from him, but Killian angles his body just so, away from her. She rolls her eyes at his pride and stubbornness, but lets him struggle with the bottle a little while longer, until he manages to free it from its golden cap. Only to struggle with the cork. She sighs loudly and, ignoring his protests, snatches the bottle and puts it back on the corner. His mouth opens in a silent protest, conflicted eyes traveling between her and the bottle.

“We don’t need the champagne.”

“But you went through all this trouble to get us something nice and…”

Her hand grabs his wrist, successfully silencing him. “We don’t need it,” she says again, softer this time.

He blinks at her, before his hand finds its way to his neck, scratching behind his ear. “Sorry, it’s been a long day.”

She smiles at him, staring into his eyes. He’s always had such pretty eyes, and they look particularly vibrant in the darkness of Granny’s diner. They look particularly vibrant when he’s staring down at her like that, like she holds the sun and stars and galaxies, like she’s something precious and beautiful. Maybe it is the way he’s staring at her, maybe it’s the fact that she will never see him again, that has her so bold with her feelings and her tongue.

“You have to stay.”

He blinks again, surprised this time. “ _ What _ .”

“Granny needs you, she’s too old to run the diner on her own and you know she’ll give it to you eventually and…”

“Emma…”

“And Leo looks up to you, you can’t just turn your back to him like that. He’s still just a kid, he needs someone to look up to, he…”

“Emma, what are you talking about?”

“And everyone in this town loves you. What about your mother? She’s going to be so devastated when you leave, you can’t do that to her.”

“ _ Emma _ !”

She’s the one left blinking at him this time, his interruption rendering her speechless when she has so many things she wants, needs to tell him. Only for a second, thought, before the words come back to her, before her mouth takes over once more, her voice louder this time, heavier.

“You can’t just leave Storybrooke behind like that and pretend like it’s nothing!”

_ You can’t leave _ me  _ behind _ .

“Emma, why are you mad at me?”

His eyes are pained, his mind confused with everything she just threw at his face -- everything that was boiling inside her ever since he received the damn letter from King’s College, ever since Lance and Gwen’s wedding where he was supposed to be her plus one but danced with Milah instead, ever since Ingrid looked at her unimpressed as she was arguing against her feelings for him because he’s Killian, he’s always been her best friend, her  _ person _ , but it doesn’t mean she  _ loves _ him. Not like that. Of course not like that.

“I’m not mad at you!” she almost shouts back.

Run, run, run, her mind shouts back. This is dangerous territory. She’s said too much already and it can only get worse from there, so running away will save and protect what little pride she has left, will protect the parts of her heart he still hasn’t shattered into pieces.

(She  _ loves _ him.)

(Of course,  _ like that _ .)

She makes a run for the door, quite literally, ready to jog all the way back to the farm if she has to, if it means putting some distance between Killian and her. But he doesn’t let her, grabbing her wrist and pulling him back to him until Emma has no choice but to face him again, to face her own feelings.

For a moment, she can’t read his face, his eyes, his thoughts. For a moment, she forgets about it all, numbed by the painful staccato of her heart against her ribcage, of the blood rushing to her brain. Which is probably why she suddenly raises on her tiptoes, one hand cupping Killian’s jaw and her lips on his. Barely a second, barely a caress before she steps away, before she avoids his eyes once more.

“I’m not mad, I’m just too late.”

This time, he doesn’t stop her when she runs.

 

…

 

Emma busies herself with work and Henry, purposefully ignoring the ticking clock above her head when she’s finger-painting in the kitchen with her son. It’s her day off at Every Given Sundaes, so she can’t rely on this to keep her body and mind busy, away from the fact that Killian is flying to England today. His plane is at 10. He said goodbye last night, both of them toeing around each other and around what happened at Granny’s. She’d seen it in his eyes, how he wanted to talk about it, how he wanted to talk to her for more than five minutes and a few goodbyes, but then Leo had arrived and Henry had hugged him, and Emma had been able to escape him and his too knowing eyes and the fact that he’s leaving her for good.

She thinks of preparing lunch when the clock strikes midday -- her father will be back from working in the fields soon, and they’ve planned to go to a neighbour town this afternoon to check on the market. Morgan is selling some horses, and they want to buy a new one for Leo’s birthday now that his poney is old, deserving of a good retirement.

She leaves Henry to his own devices, an episode of Trollhunters playing on the tv, so she can prepare pasta for lunch. The water is boiling and she’s adding a salad to the mix, when someone loudly knocks on the door. She glances at the clock -- ten past noon -- before she wipes her hands on a towel and makes her way across the house. Leo probably forgot his keys again, too lazy to climb and break into his own bedroom for once. Or maybe Graham stopping by to have a drink with her father.

She doesn’t expect to open the door on Killian, duffled back slung over his shoulder and anxious look on his face.

Emma gapes at him. Her mouth opens but she can’t find the words, not when he leans with both hand and prosthetic on the doorframe, not when he’s so out of breath it’s like he ran all the way from the airport. His eyes roam over her face, taking her all in, and Emma’s cheek heat up under his gaze. He never had that effect on her, but that was before -- before she admitted her feelings, before she kissed him, before she allowed her heart to get broken by him.

“Killian?”

He reaches into the pocket of his leather jacket, and hands her a crumpled piece of paper. Her fingers are shaking when she takes it from him, making it hard for her to open the damn letter, but she knows what it is the moment she has a glance at the logo at the top. She doesn’t need to read the words -- couldn’t even if she tried, because her eyes gets blurry with tears, a treacherous one rolling down her cheek.

“Fuck King’s College,” he tells her, almost angry. “Fuck London. I’m coming to Boston with you.”

Her fist closes around the acceptance letter from Boston U before she throws her arms around his neck, pulls him to her so tightly she can’t even breath for a moment. And then his mouth is on her, feverish, hurried, and she can’t breath for a whole different reason. He leaves her breathless and dizzy and happy, so happy she has no idea how to react, how to deal with everything, anything.

“I love you,” she whispers against his lips between two kisses, because she was so scared she’d lost him for good and she refuses to deny it anymore. “Don’t leave again, I love you.”

“Never,” he promises, and it sounds like an absolute. “Bloody hell, I love you too.”

He buys her a bottle of champagne when they move to Boston, and laughs loudly at Henry’s face when her kid steal a sip from her drink.


End file.
